Patchwork Girl
by Mighty Crouton
Summary: When Commander Shepard requires a tattoo artist, Jack finds herself stitching together the woman's enigmatic nature and mysterious history. Three Headed Dog (Part 3 of 3) : Atropos, The Illusive Man's story. A Jane 'Foucault' Shepard tale.
1. Dog Tags

This is a character exploration.

Not all heroes are glamorous, charismatic, and friendly.

Not all heroes are normal or socially acceptable.

Some heroes are deeply flawed. Some heroes have their own issues.

Some heroes are just very hard to pin down.

According to Jack, there is one hero that can be downright strange and often mean.

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**DOG TAGS  
><strong>Prelude

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history. Pre Omega Relay - End  
><em>

* * *

><p>Her hands started to ache over the last few days. It was a wretched throb that incapacitated her. Jack tried rotating her wrist, and she also tried pushing back her fingers to stretch out the muscle tissue in her palm. When the aching persisted, the woman started cracking her knuckles, practicing short hand exercises.<p>

Still, the pain fixed itself. A constant throb that spread from her wrist to the tips of her fingers. The biotic punched the walls a few times, to take her mind off the buzz. Hell, she even started using wrist braces in a vain attempt to correct the problem. She could have looked for medical attention, but that would require Jack to leave the underbelly of the engineering deck and venture into areas where people existed.

She might have to share the elevator with someone, someone she knew or someone she didn't know at all. What if they tried to converse with her? Question her? What if they pissed her off somehow?

What if Jack ran into an alien? Or possibly even Officer Miranda Lawson, a woman who deeply reminded her of caretakers from the past? These circumstances were uncontrollable, circumstances that frightened her. The thought picked at Jack's nerves. Sure, people can wander into her little space if they dared, but at least it was her space and she could navigate the social situation with ease. Anywhere else? Any place that wasn't her own?

It was an unknown. And unknown factors were scary. Unknown factors were out of her control... not that she was want to admit that.

So instead of dealing with unpredictable factors, Jack stayed in her hot little lair and dealt with the pain. The convict groaned, falling back into her bed as she studied the rafters, listening to the engineers twitter among themselves about some technical bullshit that went over her head. Sometimes picking up on the quarian's synthesized inflection. Just a way to pass the time. Take her mind off the pain. Take her mind off of being bored.

"Do you always eavesdrop on conversations you don't understand?"

The convict lurched forward, muscles bristling and eyes wide. Static blue danced across her skin, biotics whispering across her figure as the voice's person took form. At first, Jack thought she was seeing things. The stairs rippled for a moment, white electricity briefly shimmering across a shadow. It took a few seconds to process, before Jack fell back into her bed and rolled her eyes.

"Shit, Shepard. Do you always fucking sneak up on people? Or are you just a voyeur?"

The cloaking device flickered, revealing a human female dressed in thick plates of blood stained armor. She crossed her arms and pressed her hip into the wall. After settling in, Commander Shepard stared at jack, pinpoints of red flickering in the light where her pupils should be.

Jack continued to ignore the commander.

Their relationship was... odd, to say the least. While the convict hardly considered herself an idol of social normalcy, Commander Shepard made Jack feel like a goddamn charismatic beauty queen in comparison. Sharing the same space with Shepard was just downright... awkward. It always had been, ever since Jack's escape on purgatory. Even on days when the biotic wasn't called to join certain assignments, Shepard would just walk into the other woman's room and simply invade her space.

Sometimes she asked questions about Jack's past. That wasn't so bad since Jack liked talking to people who were willing to listen without an angle. That was the problem. Everyone has an angle. Everyone wants something from someone. Jack liked that. She knew how to handle that, manipulate the system, keep it strictly business - it made her future prospects interesting. But Shepard never asked favors. She never asked for anything. She'd just sit there and listen to Jack. Maybe make a comment or two, often biting ones involving duty or doing her job right or making sure that Jack remained 'harmless' and 'unproblematic.'

_'Why the hell do you ask me about my past, if you just turn around and tell me to stop wasting your time and get shit done?'_ Jack would ask.

The commander would then proceed to say something scathing.

And then she'd just walk away. Sometimes completely unannounced.

Right now, Shepard wasn't walking away.

Jack raised her brow and finally glared at the other woman sidelong, "You ever hear of privacy? Get the fuck out, Shepard."

The commander only shifted her weight to the other leg.

"Do you just enjoy fucking with me?" Jack mocked, turning her head this way and that to emphasize a point.

Shepard shrugged, rolling her shoulders, "Not really."

"Then why the hell are you here?" The convict snapped.

It was always like this with Shepard. Always. At first Jack convinced herself that Commander Shepard was a lesbian who just wanted to fuck her. She tried nipping those advances in the bud, however the strange woman would only shrug in her own way, roll her eyes, make a scathing remark, and then just stare at Jack until the convict excused herself to use the restroom (Well, more accurately, Jack said 'I am going to take a shit. Now go fuck yourself' at the time).

"Are you going to say something or just stand there and stare?"

Shepard raised her brow and puffed her left cheek in response.

Oh yeah. And then there was that.

On top of being a straight up privacy-invading anti-social ball of straight up aggressive renegade bullshit, Shepard also had some very, very, very weird physical tics. For reasons that Jack just did not understand, the commander frequently puffed her cheeks, emitted low vocal hums from her throat, and sometimes slipped language and words between her sentences that didn't register on Jack's translator.

There was one time when Shepard fucking head butted Jack in the face - effectively breaking her nose. And then asked her if she wanted to spar.

Who the fuck does that?

Who the _fuck_ does that?

"Listen, captain commander ma'am. As entertaining as you totally aren't, I'd REALLY prefer to sit here by myself and eavesdrop on technical bullshit that I don't understand. So, if you'll excuse me, the door is behind you. Fuck off."

"I have a favor to ask," The commander responded, never moving, never leaving.. hell. Jack was pretty sure the woman didn't even react to her request. Hell, Shepard probably didn't even hear her.

The biotic groaned, hopped off the bed, and briskly walked towards the stairs, "I'm going to go take a shit. Fuck yourse-"

"I need a tattoo."

Jack's shoulder brushed across Shepard's grey armor plate, stopping short of physically 'bumping' her to make a point. The convict froze and turned on her heel slowly, dark eyes fixed on the other woman's face. Jack was close. She was very close. She could pick at all the details in Shepard's scars, stare at the strange luminescent red that peaked between folds of unhealed flesh across her cheeks and neck. She blinked, brow raised and lips turned as her mind processed the information. "Wait. What makes you think that I know how to tatto-"

"If you don't get your carpal tunnel treated soon, you will be a liability to the mission. I know you are ambidextrous, but you have to start allowing both hands to rest after working with the tattoo gun," Shepard stated in a matter-of-fact tone, tilting her head as those grey eyes matched Jack's gaze.

"How did you kno-"

"You haven't bothered washing off the ink from your fingers. You are obviously redoing your tattoos, probably something you do every year or so to keep it consistently fresh. Maybe it's because you thrive on the pain. Maybe it's because it helps you remember those moments when you felt like a human and you weren't a scared little girl. Maybe it takes your mind off of the bad shit. Maybe it's reality distraction from our situation - we are on a suicide mission. You might die tomorrow, and you are fucking scared. Maybe that's it. Whatever it is, its fucking with your wrists and hands," Shepard rubbed the back of her neck as she continued, "Mordin has some supplies that's effective, I'll ask if I can grab some. But in return, I want a tattoo."

Jack just stared at Shepard. She felt like a toad with her mouth jarred open in a stupid expression. Jack's hands balled into fists than relaxed, kneading out the pain and tension from her wrists, palms, and fingers. Was Shepard fucking with her head? What the hell was her deal?

The commander only maintained that even gaze, grey eyes twitching thoughtfully between Jack's dark gaze. Shepard pursed her lips together. She puffed both cheeks unconsciously, then leaned her weight back on to the right leg as a low hum whistled through her throat.

It was almost as if Shepard was mocking her. Or laughing. Or something. She couldn't fucking tell.

"... You are so weird," Jack grumbled. "Fine. What do you want?"

Commander Shepard nodded and raised both hands to meet her neck. Gently, she untangled a pair of silver dog tags, unsnapping the lock from behind and handing the military set to Jack. The convict blinked and stepped backwards, fingering the braised metal and studying the name, number, and identification that dented the metal.

Williams, Ashley. Blood type A. Human. Alliance.

"I used to have those tattooed around my wrist. Before my resurrection," Shepard explained, her voice pointed and serious. "I had a lot of tattoos actually. Not anymore, obviously. Project Lazarus wasn't able to give me back my ink. But I aim to rectify that, and I'd like you to help me before the suicide run. You up for it?"

Jack blinked, and turned over the tags. It was weird. The convict was hardly an empathetic person, part of being an anti-social nut case. But whatever it was, holding these dog tags, and sort of... listening to Shepard. She felt her stomach churn uncomfortably. Maybe it was the weight in the commander's voice, or rather, the lack of it. The way she said it - so matter of fact, so devoid of feeling. A strange lack of emotion when you are about to have someone's dog tags inked into your skin.

Yet, Shepard shared this information with her. Jack, who only shrugged her away. Jack, who felt awkward and weird around the commander. Jack, who told her to fuck off and leave her alone.

Jack who often detested the commander for being a straight up weirdo.

All of the sudden, Jack was very curious about this strange woman.

"Hold on to those and don't lose them. Study them if you have to," Shepard nodded, moving away as she rounded the corner towards the stairs "I'll come back later with your medical supplies. We'll start inking tomorrow."

"H-Hey wait. Commander?" Jack hesitated, fingers closed around the dog tags. Shepard stopped her tread, turning her head only slightly and gazing back at the convict just from the corner of her eye.

It was then that Jack found herself doing the unthinkable.

"I gotta ask. Who was this person to you?"

Jack suddenly, for whatever goddamn reason, was interested. She was actually interested.

The commander flicked her hand out, "That's none of your damn business."

And then she left.

Jack watched as Shepard climbed the stairs away, her presence replaced by the technical conversations of engineers working on the floor above, fingers and wrists aching as she clutched the dog tags.

Ashley Williams.

Why the fuck did it bother Jack so much? Why did it matter? It left a bitter taste in her mouth. Maybe later she'll get the answers. For now, the woman could do little but stare at these dented pieces of tin that had some strange emotional value to a commander she never entirely understood, and probably never would.

Ashley Williams.

Still. Jack couldn't stop wondering who this was to the dark, callous commander.

Ashley Williams.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>  
>Alright. Continuing the story of Commander Jane 'Foucault' Shepard, from Kingdom of Rust. This is Jack's perspective. While Garrus might know one side of Shepard, Jack knows an entirely different one.<p>

As Jane has said - 'I am a million different people. I am never simply one person.'

This is one of those millions.


	2. O Living Always, Always Dying

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**O LIVING ALWAYS, ALWAYS DYING  
>Ashley William's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history.  
><em>

* * *

><p>It's easy to lose track of time if you aren't the type to keep a schedule. Jack occupied hers with calisthenics, grappling the beam above her bed and pulling her body off the ground. After a set of twenty pull ups, she'd do several standard push ups, and mix up her routine by jumping between each push up or forcing her body into a plank position for five minutes at a time. The pull ups helped to build her biceps, while stretching muscles sore from the heat of her sets. After one hundred pull ups, two hundred push ups, and twenty minutes of planks, Jack would fall back into her mattress and gnaw mindlessly on one of the protein bars she found stored in the cargo bay.<p>

At least when Jack was cryogenically frozen she didn't have boredom to worry her. Ever since she sprung out of purgatory, the convict was increasingly aware of how lonely she was. At least on Purgatory, she heard voices, screams, the sounds of people pounding against the walls or getting pounded into a wall. The violent and tortured conversations kept her mind engaged. However, due to her own violent and tortured nature, adjusting to normal acts of socialization... such as small talk or listening to other people have a bit of small talk... was incredibly difficult.

While not one to admit it, sharing space with another person (especially a stranger) scared her. On the few occasions Jack ventured Normandy's cafeteria, her mouth turned dry, palms sweaty, and a shaking sensation rattled her nerves. Wearing sunglasses in public eased the issue a little, since Jack still had difficulty making eye contact without warranting attack or insult.

Social dysfunction played key to Jack's history.

So it was no surprise that she chose to nest in the Normandy's underbelly, cut off from the world above her. And it was just as unsurprising that Jack's nerves rattled her dry when Shepard would take it upon herself to personally invade her privacy and remind her just how fragile Jack's little barrier trick was. This wasn't Jack's ship. This was Shepard's. And like it or not, Jack had to abide by that woman's rules. If the commander wanted to wander into her room whenever she willy nilly felt like it, Jack had little choice but to chew on her lip and deal with it. And if that same commander demanded a tattoo, Jack would just have to deal with that as well.

A tattoo meant Jack would have to spend hours with Shepard, perhaps for long periods at a time. Not only that, but Jack would actually have to make physical contact with another human being. This further frustrated the convict, who chose to focus her nerves and fear on another set of pull ups.

Exercising, on top of being a great time waste, was also Jack's way of meditating.

Her muscles burned as she focused on the sticky, metallic dog tags twined around her left wrist. Ashley William's name had firmly embedded itself into Jack's flesh, and she concentrated on the pink welts that crossed her skin, between the inked patterns. Jack knew little about Shepard, and wasn't entirely sure how she'd be able to tattoo the tags without knowing this woman's story. She wasn't sure how to approach the commander on the subject. Jack was notoriously open-mouthed about her autobiography but Commander Shepard was a closed book of encrypted secrets. Jack, street wise as she was, could not read into the other woman's personality. She was cold, pointed, strange, and callous. And, as if to add more fire to Jack's frustration, Shepard could see straight through people. For all those times Jack fought along with the commander and watched her short change enemies both physically and verbally, the convict had witnessed Commander Shepard's uncanny ability to predict and understand a perfect stranger's nature.

Jack certainly took no comfort in the fact that Shepard had probably outlined and mapped out her own insecurities, quirks, weaknesses, and strengths.

"Exercising your body will only get you so far."

The convict stopped her quick motions. Her body dangled from the beam as brown eyes searched for the intruder's voice. Jack sneered as the shadows rippled, revealing Commander Shepard's location. Cloaking device. The woman loved to abuse it. The Normandy's captain stared back, arms crossed under her breasts and hip pressed into the wall opposite of the staircase. Without waiting for an invitation, Shepard casually sauntered over and unfolded a chair under her arm, setting it across from Jack's mattress.

And, without asking, Shepard proceeded to peel back her armor, revealing the black, breathing suit underneath.

Jack wasn't surprised in the least. Shepard was challenging her comfort zone, grey eyes boring into hers as she picked off the form fitting fabric, revealing pale, smooth, untouched skin dappled with freckles and moles. The commander's skin lacked scars. There were no abrasions, no scratches, no bruises. Her skin was perfect.

Jack studied the woman. Her brown gaze estimated the supple flesh like an artist would a canvas. Shepard's body was so blank, so new, perfect and ready for a pen. Shepard was a giant, curved question mark - strange and mysterious. And Jack was lucky enough to alter her, change her, mold her, label her.

Jack was an artist whose medium involved an ink gun, Shepard's pristine skin unmarred by scars and scuffs was the perfect canvas.

Suddenly, all of Jack's previous anxieties, fears, and worries swept away, replaced by a rare sense of clarity and focus.

"I used to have many scars. Many tattoos," Shepard said frankly. "This body is a stranger to me."

"You're a stranger to a lot of people," Jack shot back, swinging her body off the rail and to the ground with a satisfied thump. "Here's the thing, commander ma'am. If you want satisfaction guaranteed from this job, then I need to know you."

"What do you mean?" Shepard inquired suspiciously, brows furrowed and grey eyes peeked between the lines of her lashes.

Jack rolled her shoulders, sore muscles stretched. She groaned with pleasure as joints pop and stiff limbs moved. Neatly, Jack kneeled under her bed, and pulled out a rusty lockbox whose cobalt paint was starting to chip. The tattoo gun, Jack stole. The ink, Jack pocketed. The box, however, Jack purchased from a street rat during ship leave on Omega. She paid twice what the box cost, but the extra tip was worth the little girl's gap toothed smile. For a woman who possessed nothing and wanted nothing, the box was precious. It's contents second-rate to the old, beaten up box's spirit.

"You can't expect me to ink these dog tags on you if I don't even know who 'Ashley Williams' is," Jack replied evenly, tools set out across the bed with all the delicacy of a surgeon. "For all I know, she was your kid. Or your sister. Or your rival. Or some broad you fucked your entire childhood. Do you see how each relationship kind of changes how I might tattoo these on you? Like it or not, commander captain ma'am, you gotta give me more than 'Fuck off, its none of your business.'"

Jack wanted to raise her eyes and enter an aggressive, no backsies staring contest with Shepard. But... she won't do that. Jack did not want to fuck this up. It wasn't that she was particularly comfortable with knowing Shepard's history, but that Jack really wanted the work to speak for itself. Imagine trying to make orange juice out of nothing. You just can't do that. You need the right ingredients, and you need the right experience to get the job done. This wasn't about petty fights or all the stupid walls people put up. This was a real thing, a special thing. Tattoos are special. Jack revered body ink too much to let Shepard's mental issues shit all over the convict's art.

"Fine," Shepard stated pointedly. "Its not as if you'll tell anyone, anyways."

"What makes you so sure?" Jack snapped back.

"Who are you going to tell? You don't have any friends. You don't even have friendly acquaintances. Or acquaintances. You aren't even in prison, and you keep isolating yourself away from everyone and everything." Shepard shrugged. "I don't trust you, but I guess that doesn't matter when no one else does either."

Shepard's cold statement was so casual, so simple, so easy. Said as if it meant nothing.

Making it all the more biting.

Jack's shoulders tensed.

"What the hell, Shepard? Are you here to berate me, or here to get fucking inked by me? Make your goddamn choice, you can't have both."

"Sure I can," Shepard replied. "You are so desperate for human contact that you'll do anything, including dealing with my bullshit, to get it. I want ink, and you want to hold someone's hand. Seems like a fair exchange."

The commander motioned towards the tattoo gun. "I may not like or trust who you are, but I do trust what you are. Death is an art to you, so is body ink. I trust an artist to do what she's made to do - art. So if you need answers, fine. I'll give them."

Shepard thrust her arm forward and laid it palm up across Jack's thigh. "Now ask your questions and get to work."

Jack felt so transparent. The commander might as well have shat all over the convict's thick layer of insecurities and mental issues. The woman flips a switch, the tattoo gun buzzing alive - needle jabbing the air in quick blinks. For a moment, she's tempted to stab Shepard's radial artery and leave her flailing and bleeding. She's tempted, but the want to create swallows her want to destroy, and she untangled Ashley's dog tags from her arm and lays the metal chips across her lap, opposite of Shepard's exposed wrist.

"Who was she?" Jack asked simply, turning the tattoo gun off.

"The first and last person I've ever mourned," Shepard replied.

Snapping on a pair of surgical gloves, Jack rolled her eyes at the commander's short, quippy answer. "Shepard, you have to do better than that. If you want something good, you have to dig a little deeper. Think of this as story telling time."

"I'm not a story-teller, Jack. I'm a soldi-"

"No one fucking doubts you're a soldier. You're bland as shit. You gotta try not to bore me if you want this done right."

Shepard narrowed her lips, dark brows knitted, grey eyes narrowed. She even flared her nostrils.

Jack threw her arms into the air. "Fine. Be that way. It would've looked so much better. But, I guess you'll just have to be satisfi-"

"Have you ever heard of Walt Whitman?" Shepard interrupted.

Jack secretly smiled to herself. There we go...

"Yeah. Totally know him. We fuck every Tuesday. Of course I don't know who Walt Whitman is."

The commander sighs, shaking her head as she melted into the chair. "Pay attention. Clear your mind and just listen."

Something was happening, and Jack couldn't put an inked finger on just what that something was. The other woman, the stranger in her room - naked, stripped of clothing - it's as if all of her mystery and strangeness was cracking. It was weird. It was like, Shepard was someone... relatable... almost.

Shepard had been called a great many things in history. The Butcher of Torfan, the diety of death, an enemy, an anomaly, siha, and - most infamously - The Bloody Shepherdess. Even Jack, despite dealing with years of solitary confinement and crimes outside the Alliance's reach, knew of the woman before actually meeting her. The commander's reputation was built on a quilt of ruthless cruelty. Shepard had sacrificed hundreds upon hundreds of lives - including innocents - just to get the job done. Shepard's reputation was woven with hate and insult. Her fellows feared her, her enemies loathed her.

Jack would never have guessed the Bloody Shepherd had a knack for poetry.

The woman's voice lifted and fell into waves of whispers and sighs. Her voice turned into a series of sweet inflections, tongue kissing each departing word, echoing off the rafters and buzzing the interior of Jack's room.

"O living always, always dying!  
>O the burials of me past and present.<br>O me while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever;  
>O me while I was for years, no dead, I lament not, I am content;<br>O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look at where I cast them,  
>To pass on, O living! always living! and leave the corpses behind."<p>

Jack lacked a certain sophistication for poetry, and most of the meaning flew over her head. Shepard must have read the convict's patchy understanding, and took it upon herself to clarify the finer points.

"People die," Shepard started. "All the time, they are dying. It's what we do. We die. Now, learning to accept we are going to die... well, that's hard. Not everyone can do it. Most people will do anything, including sabotage, murder, and rape just to cling to an impertinent life. But what's the point? We are all going to die. We are already dying."

Shepard's eyes drifted from Jack to the dog tags sprawled across her thigh. "I've died at least five times. Six times. I don't know, I've lost count. I've also sent a lot of other people to their deaths. Dying wasn't a big deal to me. It's why I'm so good at what I do - because I value people, as well as myself, based on a scale of usefulness. We all have a purpose, its how we apply ourselves that count... but..."

"You really miss her, don't you?" Jack muttered, caressing the metallic plates between her fingers.

"... It was supposed to be easy. I didn't like her. Didn't give a shit about her. She was just some gunnery chief, some alliance soldier with a set of shallow problems and a confusing family history. She wasn't even that smart, or that clever, or that valuable a game piece to my strategies. But she had such a profound understanding of death, such a beautiful philosophy and strange, blind confidence that..." Shepard's lips pursed, eyes fixed on those dog tags. "I don't mourn the dead. Its pointless. But I mourn her."

"Did she know how you felt?" Jack asked.

"She thought I hated her. When the truth is, I hated myself for admiring her. She was the closest thing to a 'sister' I've ever had," Shepard admitted. "So I pushed her away as far as I could. I hated feeling attached. And then she died."

"And you're still attached."

"Yeah," Shepard shrugged. "I guess, being attached to the dead isn't really much of a weakness my enemies can exploit. Its easier this way."

Jack shuffled the dog tags briefly in her hands, thumb smoothing the curves, nails scratching across the raised letters. The silence between convict and captain was uncomfortable and strange. Jack could practically smell Shepard's uneasiness with this informational outpour, body tensed and nerves listless.

Maybe Jack wasn't the only one voluntarily committing herself to solitary confinement. Sometimes you don't need walls to confine yourself. Shepard might as well have been a walking, talking prison of her own devices.

"Why are you so scared of getting close to people, Shepard?"

"Why are you?"

"..."

With little adieu, the convict flipped on the tattoo gun and started to work in silence.

Shepard only stared at Ashley's dog tags, tensing occasionally from the pain until it subdued her flesh into a numb after feeling.

They both left the conversation to bare skin and a tattoo gun.

Actions often speak louder than words.

And Jack was responding in volumes, tracing long patterns of the chain links twirling and knotting in intricate designs across Shepard's bare skin. The lengths of the chains were woven with flowers, both blooming and dying. The commander breathed evenly as she sunk deeper into her chair, relaxing under the sting of Jack's needle. The convict, however, worked hard, worked long, and worked carefully. She didn't have a schedule to keep, so she just kept going, not bothering to take a break for water or rest. When her right hand started to cramp, Jack would switch to the left hand and keep going.

Jack knew little of poetry, but she did know a bit about flowers and what they meant to humans. Flowers were always fleeting. They sprout, they bloom, and they die. It's always hard to see the beautiful things die, but they always do. Flowers don't deny their nature or the inevitability of death. They don't try to wear makeup or inject poisons into their skin to assume the lie of youth. They are what they are, and you cannot deny what it is.

But it's still hard to come face to face with a dying flower. Mortality's reminder isn't kind.

"I know I'm not a good human," Shepard muttered, pulling her arm back as Jack patted the tender skin with alcohol and pain reliever. "I'm a horrible human, actually. I make for a shitty human. But..."

The commander sniffed, turning and twisting her arm in the light, and admiring the organic details that decorated her wrist. "... This is a nice reminder that, even if I'm a shitty human, I still have my humanity."

Jack nodded, packing her tools back into that old, rusty, chipped blue lockbox. The convict extended the last piece to the puzzle, Ashley William's dog tags dangling between her fingers as she offered them back to Shepard.

The nude woman blinked at the chips of metal, closing Jack's fingers around the piece. "No. I don't need them. Do what you will with it. It's just a bit of metal, nothing of significance now."

The artist blinked, eyes cast down as she drew her hands back, cupping the dog tags in her hands. "So... What now?"

"What now?" Shepard asked, blinking. The captain shrugged, "Tali's headdress. She works above, so I want you to study it. Really look at it. Examine the details. I expect you to know each swirl, each pattern, each motio-"

"Why?"

"Because I want you to tattoo that pattern across my arm," Shepard responded in a 'Well DUH' tone that Jack was starting to get used to. The commander picked up the parts and pieces of her armor, slipping her perfect, unblemished, untouched, blank canvas skin into the unsightly black breathing suit.

Jack pursed her lips, "Why Tali? What's her story with you."

Shepard rotated a finger back and forth, tutting her tongue. "Study her headdress. I'll tell you during the next session."

And then she left.

Jack watched as Shepard climbed the stairs away, her presence replaced by the technical conversations of engineers working on the floor above, fingers and wrists aching as she clutched the dog tags.

Well. She better start studying that damn headdress.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>

**More to come.**


	3. Shake it Out

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**SHAKE IT OUT  
>Tali'Zorah vas Normandy's story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Distance was easy. Isolation was relaxing. Jack found comfort in tight, boxed quarters. Jack chose to stay fixed aboard the ship, even during shore leave. She refused to separate herself from her cage, and only moved outside the spacecraft if directly ordered. She rarely left her nest in the Normandy's underbelly. She enjoyed the engine's hum, that comforting, one-sided conversation. The engine deck's white noise was a decent replacement to the chorus of screams found on Purgatory.<p>

These last two weeks tested Jack's security bubble. Shepard's infrequent, unannounced visitations disengaged Jack's personal schedule. The commander's presence jarred her, leaving the convict feeling disconnected and frustrated. Shepard was a constant reminder that Jack was not allowed absolute control over her space. Shepard's excursions left a nasty aftertaste, a notice that the convict had better learn to deal with an unpredictable time-table. She would encounter people and problems that she didn't like, and Jack would have to clam up and stop bitching.

Shepard's assignment was yet another testimony of Jack's ignored wish to just be left alone by everyone and everything. The commander left a list of topics and requests scrawled over a piece of paper, tacked to the room's wall. Jack's first thought was - Who the hell still uses pen and paper these days? Followed by her second - How the HELL did I not notice her leave this here? Has she been sneaking in while I was sleeping!? This fear unhinged Jack slightly.

When Jack reluctantly accepted her limited ability to control her environment against blunt objects like Shepard, the woman proceeded to read the note.

**Study Tali's headdress. Minute sketches. This will be an entire arm sleeve, so you better know it by detail. I'm done telling you stories, figure it out on your own.**

**Don't fuck this up. I'll see you tonight.**

**- Commander Jane Foucault Shepard.**

Groaning, Jack fell back on her single mattress, rolling her eyes across the ceiling while gnawing on her lip. Tali was the Normandy's latest recruit, picked up off Haelstrom around the time Shepard decided to ruin Jack's life by requesting a series of tattoos. Subject Zero knew little about quarians, except that they were surprisingly easy to kill if you happened to fight them one-on-one. Puncture the suit with any sharp tipped object, and their pathetic immune systems would give away to any facet of diseases. While difficult to drop if you were unwise enough to engage with a quarian in a space fight, they sucked at hand-to-hand combat. Spaceships were a quarian's only defense. Without them, they dropped like flies.

These details did not answer Jack's questions. This tattoo was obviously not about violent engagements with quarians. This was personal, cultural, and historical. Tearing Tali apart would not get Jack any closer to illustrating the meaning behind the headdress.

She'd have to see her. In person.

This left Jack's mouth dry and her heart started to rapidly beat. Biting her tongue, Subject Zero laid in bed as her chest tightened, perspiration picking at her skin as the anxiety attack swallowed her whole. The mere anticipation of looking at a complete stranger was difficult. Getting to know them? That was even harder. What if Jack said the wrong thing? What if she fucked it up right there and then? What if Tali managed to make eye contact? Eye contact was hard. It was like someone tearing apart Jack's soul, eyes stinging her gaze and searing a hole through the back of her head.

Killing was easy. Talking was not.

With little adieu, the woman quickly rolled over to the makeshift lavatory (a bucket) and proceeded to throw up. The smell of alcohol and protein bars mixed with stomach acid was strangely comforting. Staring at her own liquidated diet in the bottom of a bucket, Jack pushed herself up and rinsed her mouth out with another hit of vodka - spitting it back into that bucket instead of swallowing.

"Fine. Fine," Jack growled, swinging back the bottle and swallowing a mouthful of the brutal shit. Adjusting herself, the convict picked up a datapad and tablet pen, throwing on a pair of shades and stomping up the set of stairs leading outside the dusty, underbelly of her little nest. Taking a few short breaths, Jack counted to five before carefully treading into the cargo hold's hallway. Instinctively, the woman hunched over and took a squinting glance to her left and right, ears pricked and listening to any uncertain, untimely noises. Nothing. Nothing good. No one is there. Good good. Maybe she didn't even have to worry about this. Maybe she'd just have to tell Shepard no one was there, she tried, the end. All is done.

Sighing with a little relief, Jack had just started to move backwards when the mechanical clicking and whirring of the elevator startled her. "Shit!" Jack jumped backwards, spiraling back to her dark nest's security. The convict pressed her body against the stairs and slowed her breathing, as the elevator doors snapped open. She peeked up, investigating the occupant through the grated floor, her form still as the stranger's body shifted on each foot in a relaxed gait towards the engine room. Jack slowly, silently, and boldly crawled up the stairs to get a better look.

She could see a figure swathed in black, heavy purple garments, and a massive shotgun fixed to the small of it's back. The gait was alien, hips wide and legs contorted so that the figure moved less like a human and more like a bird. Jack could hear each passing breath, a rusty, mechanical rush that buzzed the air in a pattern of inhales and exhales.

Great. Tali was present. Fucking fantastic.

Instead of directly confronting the quarian, Jack took more of a familiar approach: the convict stalked her. Trailing quietly behind her, Jack stepped across the grate only when Tali did - her steps sounding less like an extra pair of feet, and more like a determined echo. It was early and people were probably just rolling out of bed. Tali had an uncanny ability to wake up hours before anyone else, though why, Jack never asked. She only knew Tali preferred to be in the engine room early, and leave late. While Jack wasn't entirely sure when Gabby or Donnelly would return to their posts, what mattered was Tali was by herself and Jack would be left undisturbed to study her. Finding a comfortable spot just underneath a workbench. Slowly, Jack slid the bench's door open and crawled into the tiny space, shifting a few tools to one side of the cramped box before sliding into it. Small spaces were easy. The more cramped, the better. They were comfortable. They made Jack feel safe. Removing her shades, the convict proceeded to slide the work bench's door closed - leaving only a crack so she could spy on Tali as the quarian worked.

With the faint glow of her datapad at hand, Jack proceeded to pick across the surface with her stylus. A long time ago, when Jack was an experiment and not a fucked up human being, the scientists would give her juice and non-toxic colored paints. She wasn't allowed paper. Paper could be turned into a weapon. Pencils, pens, and any other object that could jab or hurt were also restricted. However, she could paint, and Jack chose to use her body as a canvas. At first, her imagination was wild and she was preoccupied with black holes and blood and decapitated stick figures, however over time, Jack practiced still lives. Art helped distract her from violence. Human beings aren't meant to be all consumed by hatred, fear, oppression, and anger. They need outlets. So in her budding years, she painted the interior of her room across her body, portraits of the kids she could see outside her window, the scientists and doctors that examined her.

With little else to do, Jack had become a very, very, very good artist.

The convict evenly inhaled and exhaled as she concentrated, the stylus flickering across the datapad as she drew the contours of Tali's body across the smooth glass. Sketch after sketch, small minute details. Then Tali would move, shift her head, something small, and Jack would quickly save her files and proceed to open a fresh page, drawing again and again. It was kind of fun, actually. Jack had forgotten how much she enjoyed this. Figure drawing was easy. Jack was already familiar with biology and anatomy, given how many times she tore apart bodies limb for limb as a child. Quarians, just as easy. The rhythm was simple. Heavier hips and large legs with multiple joints support a small frame, small breasts, small figure swathed in all these clothes.

They say quarians are a highly social race. How ironic that they can't even physically touch each other.

Caged in the suits that keep them alive.

Jack bit her lip.

Jack chose her cage. Tali has no choice.

As she drew the long, swirled patterns of the quarian's head-gear, Jack wondered what it meant. Why that particular color? Why that particular style? Was it to give the impression of hair? Or had quarians always worn these long head dresses, even before they were confined to these suits. She knew what they looked like under the helmets, attractive and humanoid with dark hair and lithe skin, bright, luminescent eyes with strange glowing patterns across their faces. But what did Tali look like? Was her hair short? Or long? Or thick? Did she have thin lips? Were her teeth crooked? You could never see the mouth and hair, unless they were fully removed from those suits. The eyes and nose? Yes. But the mouth?

"EDI, are Gabby and Donnelly still asleep?" Tali inquired, in her lilting accent.

"Yes, Tali. They are unlikely to wake up for another hour."

"Good," The quarian stated, stepping backwards in one fluid movement, pivoting on one foot.

"I shall inform you if they awaken. Did you want to download any new rhythms to your suit?"

"No," Tali declined, shifting her weight to the ball of her left foot and dropping suddenly to the ground. "I have what I need here. Go ahead and start recording, I want to perfect this dance should we... well, should we survive this mission. No more mistakes, yeah?"

"Certainly," EDI responded.

Jack stared. She felt slightly excited and nervous, a little voyeuristic. Dancing? Does Tali dance every morning? Jack had no idea that quarians even danced, or that Tali danced, or that there was any dancing going on right above her head! She would have heard it, right? The convict's breath became more level, a wide grin suddenly playing across her painted lips as she poised her pen firmly across the datapad.

This would be fun.

Tali was on the ground, then she firmly placed one foot across from her body, arched at both knees. She lifted her full weight into a turn, back facing Jack and showing the full contours of her muscles and figure. She flexed, one arm moving slowly, gracefully turning the air as her joints and limb moved fluidly - distracting Jack as Tali suddenly pivoted again, one leg stabbing the air in a silky, intoxicating motion as her arms spread to give her balance. She looked like an elongated bird. Jack had anticipated Tali's dance to be all hips considering her odd proportions, but the motions were not grounded enough for the twist and turns of muscles and joints locking between each flex. While Tali maybe look like a giant, awkward, robot, her movements argued that she weighed little more than air, arms and legs turning and pushing and engaging the full extend of her small space. It was a singular dance, a performance between Tali and the engine room. At one point, the quarian disengaged the ends of her long, beautiful headdress from the buttons on her breastplate.

It did emulate hair.

The silky, purple patterns twirled and moved, circulated and spun. Tali wasn't air. She was wind, or at least, emulating wind when none existed on a space craft. One leg continued to stab the empty space, as her arms pushed her weight back to her center.

Cramped, small engine room it maybe... but Tali's dance expanded it.

Caged in her suit Tali maybe... but you can't really ever cage a free spirit.

Beauty. Real beauty can never be captured on a camera or some video footage. Real beauty could only be analyzed, reinvestigated, and illustrated by an artist. Jack understood. Tali was beautiful, she defined the word, the very being of it. How she moved, the sweetness of her voice, her nonplus personality, her intelligence, her resilience. Jack continued to draw, capturing take for take, studying minute by minute, recalling, remembering, adoring, loving. Whatever hatred and anger and fear was in her heart gave away, the ice chipping and the seams breaking as the weight of admiration and love filled her.

Time had passed. Tali stopped dancing at some point. Gabby and Donnelly eventually crawled out of bed and went to their stations. Jack was so engrossed, she chose to stay in the little workbench, studying the drawings, fixing the details, working until both hands cramped. When the lunch bell finally rang, the engineers disengaged themselves and left Jack by herself, still engrossed, still obsessed, still deeply in love.

"I never miss an opportunity to watch her dance."

"WHAT TH-" The surprise of that statement was replaced by a loud BANG as Jack neatly slammed her head against the tight wall of her secret hiding place. Cursing out loud to the heavens above, the convict rolled out of the work bench with both hands bracing her pulsing, uncomfortable, bruised skull. "WHAT THE FUCK, SHEPARD?!"

The commander stepped out of the shadows, the illusion rippling as her shape took form under the cloaking device. One thumb rubbed her nose, head tilted and arms crossed under her breasts as Shepard chose to stare ahead instead of looking down at the poor, rolling pile of Jack at her feet. "She thinks no one watches. She's been wanting to share that dance of hers with me since I first met her."

"So why the hell don't you tell her tha-"

"Because if I did, she wouldn't get better," Shepard snapped back. "The first time I watched her dance, she was shit. The second time, she got better. She's always getting better. She thinks she's doing it for me, to impress me or some shit. She needs to realize that she should be doing it for herself. So I will continue to refuse her advances, and when I'm finally dead, she'll realize that dancing is who she is, not what she thinks I want her to be."

Jack paused, staring at the commander just off the corner of her eye. Foucault was so notorious at pushing people away. All of them. "You really love her, don't you?"

Shepard's lips tightened, "Love is just a four letter word for weakness."

"Stop bullshitting yourself, Shepard. You really love all these people."

"I didn't ask for a psychoanalysis, Jack. I'm a pretty fucked up human being, but I'm not damaged goods. I'm the perfect soldier. Leave it at that. Now, you have a tattoo to finish."

Jack narrowed her eyes, "Alright. Fine. I have it, I know what to do.."

"Good," Shepard nodded. "After you are done inking the sleeve, I have another project as well."

Jack rolled her eyes skyward and just... sighed out loud "Goddammit, Shepard. Fine. Humor me."

"Meditate with Samara."

"WHAT!?"

Shepard nodded very calmly, very slowly, and very pointedly. "You heard me. Meditate with her. Tomorrow. I've already scheduled an appointment. Whatever you see during that meditation session, whatever fucking inspires you, I want tattooed across my lower back."

"... A tramp stamp, Shepard?" Jack raised a single, mocking eyebrow.

The commander only shrugged, and proceeded to step out of the engine room and towards Jack's makeshift hole in the ground.

Fine... Fine... Grumbling, Jack followed Shepard. Whatever. This stupid assignment wasn't about the sour one of Jack's favorite activities.

Physically inking Shepard was worth the pre-requisite bullshit.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>

**Shamelessly inspired by Shake it Out (The Weeknd Remix) by Florence + The Machine.**

**Of all the characters, I think Tali's the hardest to write. For me, at least.**

**I do believe we choose to surround ourselves with those who truly reflect the many facets of our complex personalities, and I try to encapsulate those beliefs in all the characters I write, OC or otherwise. Thanks for sticking around. :)**


	4. Heart of Darkness

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**HEART OF DARKNESS  
>Jacob Taylor's story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history.  
><em>

* * *

><p>The dreams returned in vigor, tormenting Jack the moment she'd let her guard down and slip into R.E.M. For the most part, she managed to keep them at bay, taking light naps every couple of hours between docking planets or missions. Sometimes, though, especially after a particularly trying fight, Jack would forget to focus and mentally drop into a dark, dead sleep.<p>

Her dream self would sit there, sitting cross legged at the door inside the cramped room. She'd just sit there and stare at the luminescent red marking telling of the locked door, a reminder of her safety. And then the door flickered green, sliding open. The blood would rush through her, her heart thumped in sharp, painful rhythms, pounding in her ears. Pounding pounding pounding pounding. Then the darkness. She could taste it, hot metallic copper blood, fist covered in a slush of fluids. She'd pound. Again and again, pound in Subject 1's face. Or Subject 2's. Or Subject 3's. 3... One time she hit 3 so hard, he lost his eye.

Afterwards, they washed her hair and wiped her down, delicately toweling her dry. She was hungry. They never allowed her to eat before bed, and only after the first 'therapy' session. Wires clawed into her skin, belts locked hands and legs tight into the cruel iron throne. Muscle relaxers injected into her veins, her body melting into the cold chair. One of the scientists inserted a bite block, missing baby teeth peeking gaps into her mouth. Snot and tears mingled across her face, a potion contrived from fear. And then the pain came, bracing through her body like a hot knife, splitting her mind into unthinking agony, shitting and pissing, choking and vomiting as the eezo seared through her insides and cut her mind into pieces.

"Hey. Heeeeeeeeyyyy Jackie girl. Heeeyyyyy"

The convict lurched forward, hand balled into a fist encased in blue. Her eyes shot open, but before the fist could make contact, someone redirected the shockwave, the flat the stranger's hand gently pushing Jack's wrist aside. A burst of energy rolled like a tide, trailing towards the stairs before knocking flat into a wall.

"Shiiiit, Shepard..." Another voice interrupted. "Maybe we sho-"

"Nah... Naaaahh itscoool. Hey, Jackie girl. Wanna drink and ink?"

The woman lurched backwards, crouching into a corner. Brown eyes dart left and right, pupils registering shadow figures in the room. Squinting, she slowly recognized the unwelcome company in her den... First, the Cerberus operative - that weapons specialist guy who helped her break out of Purgatory. He looked tense, though tried to disguise it by crossing his arms over his chest and coolly pushing his back into one of the room's bolted supports. Beside him, Commander Shepard. She sat on Jack's dingy mattress, with a bottle of something that was chilled, blue, and smelled clearly of battery acid.

"Wannnna drink, Jackie girl?" Shepard offered, extending the alcohol towards Jack. Jack's response was by cocking her brow, brown eyes darting from bottle to the Cerberus lackey who was trying to look all cool by sinking into bad posture, thumbing his nose offhandedly.

"Come on, Jackie," Shepard tilted her head, motioning for her to join them. "We just got back from watching Jacob's dad shoot himself. So we're celebrating our one true likeness. Orphanhood!"

The Cerberus officer cleared his throat, shifting his weight to the other leg. That statement certainly didn't add comfort to clarity. "Yeah... Yeah thanks, Shepard."

The commander's grey eyes fixed on the man's expression, "I know how you feel, bro. Watched my pa die. Well... I don't really know exactly how you feel. I actually killed him myself and I don't think I cared nearly as much." The woman returned to Jack with a yawn, "Come on, Jackie girl. I'm solidly drunk and want some ink. Here. Here have some of this. It's... It's awesome."

Jack stared at the offered bottle, deep red lips twisted repulsively. She remained hunched, knees bent and knuckles flexed into the ground, guarding the tiny little corner like a feral dog. Her body language lacked nuance, screaming _you are not welcome here. Leave or I will kill you._

"You know what?" The officer started, shaking his head. "I think.. I think I'm going to go to bed now. Its been a long day an-"

"Sit the fuck down, Officer Taylor, and shut up."

"I... Wait, what?"

"You heard me. I'm your commanding officer. Now sit the fuck down and deal with it," Shepard rolled her shoulders, pulling the bottle back and taking a heavy swig of the vile smelling blue shit inside of the crystal vessel. The long drink impresses Jack, assuming the battery acid is probably made for krogans and could kill most non-augmented humans deader than dead. Shepard perked her brow at the man who shifts his weight from the left leg to the right awkwardly. The Cerberus officer regards the captain's sharp glare with a deep sigh before taking a long look around the room for a chair or... anything to sit on. Shepard pats the mattress next to her. Rolling his eyes, the man gives into the suggestion and proceeds to take his place next to Shepard - eyes fixed on the floor and avoiding Jack's frustrated and irritated stare.

"Jack, I think you've already met Officer Jacob Taylor," Shepard sighs, hand weaving the empty space between them in a single motion. Jacob curtly tipped his head as both eyes flick briefly to Jack's face before respectfully returning his gaze downcast. Jack sneers.

"Yeah. The Cerberus jock. I know you."

"Cerberus jock? Points for originality Jackie girl," Shepard whistles. She turns the bottle of liquor nonchalantly in her hands before thrusting it into Jacob's stomach. "Alright, your turn Taylor."

"I don't feel like it," He murmurs, turning the bottle around in his hands and placing it on the ground between his feet.

At that, Shepard rolled her eyes, recollected the half-empty vessel and pushed it right back into Jacob's arms. "Yes you do feel like it. You really don't know how to deal with the hard shit, do you? You just don't get it, huh? Well, lemme teach you Taylor. Hell. Jack and I will both teach you."

At the mention of her name, the convict tensed. She's still trying to make sense of Commander Shepard and Officer Taylor occupying her room, let alone _looking_ at the Cerberus lapdop without whipping towards him, fingers lashed to gut him from the inside out. It's hard dealing with an informational and emotional overload, too many uncontrollable factors flooding in all at once. While Jacob and Shepard may see anger and hatred seething from Jack's expressions, she was actually experiencing a great deal of fear and anxiety. This whole situation wasn't fun at all.

The commander, however, doesn't seem to care. Not in the least. "See, Jack and I've been conditioned to deal with the bad shit. You've been sheltered for waaay too long, Taylor. You gotta loosen up a little, change your philosophy. So, he was your dad. Big deal. He already did his job 30 years ago and you thanked him by handing him a gun to correct his own problems instead of suffering through legality bullshit. You gave him a choice, he had the power to do what he wanted. That's the beautiful thing about free will, you can do just about anything!"

Shepard proceeded to pat the man on the back, her voice ridiculously charming, making her all the more ominous. "Just think of it this way, doing your job will be a helluva lot easier from this day forward. Now drink up." Jack watched Jacob stir the drink by rotating his wrist before a sigh of defeat flew between his lungs and into the air like a big red flag. He unceremoniously raised the bottle, downing the contents in a single drag before nearly coughing up the whole swig.

"JESUS CHRIST, Shepard?! What is _in_ this shit?!"

"Don't be a big baby. It's Ryncol," Shepard rolls her eyes.

"Rync- That shit can _kill_ me!"

"I diluted it!"

"With _what?"_

"Brandy. Oh you'll be fine," Shepard turned her head this way and that in mock conversation before sliding off the mattress, belly pressed to the floor. One hand searched under the Jack's bed.

Jack did not take that action kindly. "Shepard, get your fucking hands out from under my bed."

"Hmm... No," the commander replied easily, sweeping the floor until a rattle breaks her concentration. She whistles delightfully, both hands clamped around that rusty, beat up old blue box Jack hid under a layer of mattress, blanket, and bed frame. Irritated, the convict stomped directly towards Shepard, swiping the dingy tin box from the woman. The commander, for her part, did not let go.

"Ooo, someone's in a spirited mood," Shepard grins, white ivories glinting in the low light as her brows knit into an exciting and aggressive expression. This was an expression familiar to Jack. Typically a head butt followed.

"Shepard, don't start with me," Jack hissed, teeth grit and eyes shot brown as she clamps her hands securely around that stupid, precious, important box. "I'm really not in the mood right now."

The commander blinks, taken back by Jack's sensitive response. She raised her hands, releasing the heavy, dinged up object, "All right. I got it. We aren't welcome."

"Gee, Shepard," Jack spat back, "What gave _that_ away."

"I didn't say I actually gave a fuck," The woman shrugged and flops right back onto the bed. Jacob Taylor, for his part, was rocking back and forth, eyes half lidded and face flat as a wall. He looked as numb-faced as an elcor. "Shiiit... Damn, Taylor. Are you already out of it?"

"...That's some harsh shit there, Foucault," Jacob groaned, grabbing the bottle and choking on another quick swig.

"Foucault...?" Jack inquired, raising her eyes to meet Shepard who was too pre-occupied being freely entertained by a Cerberus officer drunk off Ryncol. "Wait, is that your name? Foucault?"

"Nah," Jacob smirked, lifting his lips and grinning drunkenly as the pain absolves itself in the form of heavy drinking. "Joker just likes to call her that. You don't seem to mind so much, Commander. He says it's cuz the name 'Foucault' sounds a lot like 'Fuck Off'. Says you're funny that way."

Shepard only shrugged, taking back the drink and placing it aside. The woman watched Jacob calmly as he teetered back and forth, blinking blurry eyed and giggling at the joke. And as the Cerberus jock seemed to get drunker with every passing second, Shepard appeared more sober. Jack stood there, watching as they exchanged a conversation, some stupid small talk involving ship gossip that went straight over the convict's head. Or rather, Jacob gossiped while Shepard merely nodded every once in a while, encouraging him to continue. Still, the Cerberus officer grew drunker, leaning and turning, stupidly grinning, voice slurred, emotionally lifted. Shepard, on the other hand, turned more serious.

"Wait..." Jack interrupted, blinking at the commander stupidly. "Wait. Did you _fake_ it?"

Officer Taylor turned to regard Jack dumbly, swaying like a tree in the breeze, ready to collapse. "Fake whu-?"

"I'm augmented, Jack. Of course I faked it. It takes a lot more than half a bottle of Ryncol to throw me on the ground. I need to drink _two_ bottles. Tested this recently," the woman sniffed, casually crossing one leg over the other as she started to peel off her clothes. Jacob, for his part, just stared. Dumbfounded.

"What are... Wait, what is... What the fuck are you _doing_?"

"Drink and ink, Jack," Shepard responded, nonplussed. "I want a tattoo. So does Jacob."

"I... I do...?" Officer Taylor blinked, eyes fixated on Shepard's figure as she clipped off the leather suspenders of her off-duty outfit. There, over the sleeve of her entire arm, deep purple ink painted pale flesh, white swirls peeking through the color like wind, emulating Tali's headdress. The tattoo was still scabbing, skin flaking and flesh tender. The rich details tucked just under the long, sinewy flowers - both blooming and dying - that decorated the dog tags etched with Ashley William's name around her wrist. Jacob whistled, nodding, "Damn fine ink. Real beautiful."

"It's all Jack," Shepard states, nodding up to the stunned woman who clutched that dingy blue box as if it was her lifeline.

The Cerberus jock nodded, admiring the details and reading the dog tags, biting a thick lower lip as his nostrils flared, dark eyes really evaluating Jack's work. "Do you mind?" Jacob asked, seeking permission from Shepard to touch her arm and rotate it. The commander paid little attention to the man as he peeked and prodded, reading her arm inch by inch. Jack peeled her attention away from Jacob, only to find Shepard's alarming gaze fixed on her. Shepard watched, unblinking, as if peeling back Jack's thick layers of walls, peering deep into her insecurities. Jack averted her gaze.

"Fine. But only this one time..." Jack snarled, placing the box on the ground, unlatching the top with a satisfying _click_. She set out her tools. Three tattoo guns were first, one for shading, the other lining, and the last just because. The analog power supply came second, followed by disposable tubes, needles, clips, rubber bands, ink holders, cups, rings, ointment, grommits, and stainless steel tips. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves, peering up at her company. "What would the Cerberus jock want?"

Jacob blinked, his reaction time still slow and blurry from alcohol. A grin split Jack's lips, suddenly taking a new sadistic appreciation for this recent turn of events. Alcohol thins the blood which causes increased bleeding and Jack _liked_ inking when more blood was involved. While most tattoo artists will grimace and claim their art was ruined by an idiot's dumb string of choices, Jack learned to work with the blood. Blood and ink, two of her favorite things.

"I'm... not sure..." Jacob muttered

The commander rolls her bare shoulders, supple skin breathing after discarding her vest and detached sleeves into a pile on the floor, "We'll get a matching set, Jacob. To commemorate your first day as an orphan." She raised a hand to brace the officer's shoulder. "Trust me. It'll make it easier."

"Alright, Foucault. We'll do it your way," Jacob thumbed his nose. "What would you suggest?"

"An elephant tusk," Shepard stated easily, watching the drunk next to her. "One on your right arm, one on my left."

Jack shrugged as tests her tools, adjusting the needles and using duct tape to repair one of the pinched tubes, watching Officer Taylor scratch the soft curls of his hair, fingers fixed nervously on the back of his head. "Why elephant tusks?"

"Because elephant tusks indicated you were better than everyone else in the world," Shepard started, her voice an eerie monotone that lacked emphasis or poetry. "On Earth, there is this giant continent called Africa that comprises many country-states. About 300 years ago before the formation of the Alliance, people native these countries were brutally exploited."

Shepard narrowed her eyes, one hand slicing into the air, impressing a point. "People were chained and killed. Whole kingdoms of men slaughtered so others could wear jewelry carved from the tusks of dead animals."

A silence penetrated the room, all eyes fixate on Commander Shepard. She remains, breathing evenly through her nose, "There is a darkness in all men, Officer Taylor. We have always had greedy, destructive natures. If you deny this, your heart will only be consumed by that darkness. Only by acknowledging the darkness, can you overcome it." And then her gaze turns to Jack. "Do you understand?"

The convict's mouth dried, lips parched and eyes wide as she listened attentively. Jacob turned to regard Jack, brows knit seriously, an expression of pain breaking through the hard facade. He sighed, acknowledging the familiarity between them. "Yeah. I do."

Jack bit her lip, watching tentatively as Jacob unbuttoned and slid his shirt uniform off, revealing the contours of his flat stomach and well muscled figure. This wasn't the body of a soldier, but the body of a man whose intense exercise regime touched a familiar nerve reaching to meditation and comfort. The Cerberus Agent and Subject Zero had a lot more in common than she'd liken to admit.

Wordlessly, Jack trained the tattoo gun over the soft flesh across the back of Jacob's forearm and proceeded to draw the long tusk free hand. She could feel his muscles tense under her fingers, but paid little attention to the man, only the canvas at her fingertips. As she expected, he bled quite a lot, crimson splashing and mixing with the deep black ink, diluting and causing the outline to appear less defined and more faded. She shaded the cracks and the details, referencing the codex when needed - never seeing an elephant herself, but recalling the appearance of ivory from museums she had pirated in her wild youth. When Jack finished working in the minute details, she quickly wiped off the blood and cleaned the artful wound thoroughly with alcohol, before changing into a fresh pair of latex gloves and switching tattoo guns.

Jack is a professional, and professionals are very hygienic.

Shepard came next, the bleeding less profuse and the territory more interesting. The commander's skin was still just as fresh, clean, and perfect as before. The convict freehanded a twin of that same ivory tusk, mirrored to match Officer Jacob Taylor's arm. Symbollically, it fascinated her. One white tusk, one black tusk, carved from the same flesh and tools against the skin of two people who were alike in species but nothing else. Jack chose to shade deep cracks along Shepard's tattoo, a deep contrast to the seamless beauty of Jacob's intact illustration. It worked, adding interest to the matching set.

At some point, the heavy alcohol knocked the Cerberus officer into a deep sleep - collapsed and folded over in Jack's bed. After Jack finished Shepard's tattoo, the commander reaches down to collect the man - unceremoniously throwing him over her shoulder and picking up pieces of clothing that she shoves down her deep trouser pockets. "Tomorrow. Samara meditation. Remember," Shepard reminds.

Jack nodded slowly, taking apart her tools and cleaning them individually as the Commander adjusted Officer Taylor's weight over her shoulder and began to walk out. Biting her lip, the convict's eyes roll to the side as she thinks, arguing with herself whether or not to ask after something. Her internal debate lasts only long, and Jack is quick to call after the woman, "Hey, Shepard..."

The commander stopped, turning to regard Jack fully, lifting a brow, "Yeah, Jack?"

"... About what you said..." Jack pursed her lips, twisting cords nervously between her fingers as the words string together. "Do you believe it? That... by acknowledging your darkness, you can overcome it?"

Shepard paused, then shook her head, "No. I don't."

"... Why did you lie, then? To him...?"

The commander sighed, expelling the air from her lungs to emphasize one point or another. "Because it's what he needed to hear. It's what he wanted to hear. Get some rest, Jack. Don't suffer over the details."

But she did suffer that night. Jack didn't want to sleep. Tossing and turning, the words still whispering in the back of her head. The horror. The horror.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>

**Oh. And Jacob Taylor's teeth. What great chompserz. And I LOVED Jacob's loyalty mission. Was I the only one who saw Heart of Darkness written all over that mission?**

**So yeah. Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness goes to this chapter as well. Doop doop doop**


	5. Bhavana

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**BHAVANA  
>Samara's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history. Pre Omega Relay - End  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>We're docking the Citadel. The crew will be on shore leave for twelve hours. Samara is waiting. You have an hour.<strong>

**- Commander Shepard**

Jack's fingers trembled, flimsy leaf of paper shaking in her hands as the lift doors opened, revealing the mess hall. This marked the first time Jack had explored the ship outside her little hole after Shepard's impromptu recruitment get-out-of-jail-free card. She felt like a nervous, antisocial dog forced to move out from behind the comfort of a fence and into a world of unknown factors. A snarl braced her lips as she peeked outside the lift, left then right before stepping into the unfamiliar space with all the care and attention of a man walking across boiling water.

Hopefully, Samara was _somewhere_ in here.

She wasn't exactly sure _where_ Samara resided, nor did she know her well enough to figure out the kind of place an asari samurai or whatever the hell she was would go. In fact, Jack hardly remembered what Samara even looked like. She knew she was blue, had a great rack, and looked down at you as if you were nothing more than air under her nose. Shepard briefly introduced the asari warrior during one of her ship tours, flaunting the alien like a badge or a souvenir in front of every single Cerberus employee, Miranda Lawson trailing behind to make sure the commander did not overstep her privileges. Of which she always did.

Jack trailed around the empty mess hall, peering at various janitor droids who swept and washed the absent floors with an electrical hum. She cocked a brow, stepping around the room, brown eyes drifting across the medical labs to the large room that flanked behind the mess sergeant's kitchen. Jack peered, Miranda Lawson's name painted across clean walls in neat, structured letters. Her lips twisted into a sneer as she stalked towards the room, hands pressed against the locked door, peering as if she could see into that empty office.

There. In there, there _had_ to be records of Jack's past. Maybe, just maybe she could break into the office... maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to rewire the door panel from the outside, sneak in, pull out some data records, and piece together her identity. Get some names, some locations. Answer the prominent question _why would Cerberus do this to me?_ Finally get the chance to steal back her childhood from the bastards who ripped it away from her. Maybe even get some revenge.

The woman licks her lips, fingers flexing. She could just blast the door wide open. Break into it like a fucking can opener. And what if she got caught? What the fuck did Cerberus care? They invested too much money in her to just throw her back into another shithole like purgatory. Maybe she could get away before anyone noticed. Maybe she could just steal the damn Normandy. That would be a kick in the teeth.

"Jack?"

The convict spun on her heel too fast, slipping on the slick tiles and falling on her ass. A string of curse words hit the air in a pattern of punches, one hand rubbing her ass while the other steadied her body up from the ground. Jack glared at her company, staring at the statuesque figure framed by elevator hall's entrance. Deep, blue eyes framed by thick, black lashes watched her, head lifted, a strong jaw pointing in her direction.

As before, Samara's features remained exquisitely stoic.

"Yeah, hey..." Jack muttered, her hand waving in the air with a groan. She sighed, reluctantly stepping away from Miranda's office and towards the level warrior. "So, like... Shepard wants me to meditate with you...?"

The asari tilted her head, gaze twitching back and forth, boring into Jack's eyes. Samara's intense eye contact left Jack's insides feeling less confrontational and more insecure. She looked away.

"Yes. Follow me."

Samara turned on her heel and moved towards the starboard observational deck. The asari's gait was practiced, not overly confident or weak. She was the epitome of strong and powerful. Jack dug her thumbs into the belt loops of her pants and followed behind.

Samara's heels clicked into the ground, body moving through the space like water. The doors to the observational deck parted, revealing an empty room with a window that peered into the Citadel's docking port. The asari delicately removed her shoes and sat on the ground, facing the busy comings and goings of the Citadel at work, blue eyes unphased by the small movements that streamed between people and ships, a canvas of life outside the small scope of her room. Jack sniffed, unceremoniously sitting down next to the alien.

"Sooo... did Shepard tell you why I'm here...?" Jack inquired, settling into her place.

Samara breathed evenly through her nose, crossing her left leg over the right in half lotus, resting her arms gingerly across her thighs, hands facing up. "No. Only that you needed to learn."

"... Right..." Jack mutters, scratching the back of her head, enjoying the prickling of growing hair between finger and nail. "I... can't say I've ever... done this before. Don't you have to like, chant or some shit?"

The asari doesn't react, calm and gentle. Her stoicism unnerved Jack greatly. "Not if you don't want to. Do you know what meditation is?"

"... Uh..." Jack swallowed, eyes shifting nervously from the busy docks to Samara, whose gaze remained fixed on the window. "... You sit quietly and think deeply about shit?"

The corner of Samara's lips turned ever so slightly in amusement. This simple gesture relieved Jack. "No. No thinking at all. No, you purify the mind."

The justicar turned her head, fully regarding Jack with that same piercing gaze that picked and pulled at the convicts insecurities. "Do you mind if I adjust your position?"

She braced herself, teeth grit and mouth dry at the question. "No. Actually... I would mind..." Jack grumbled.

Samara nodded, not prodding further. "Remove your shoes. Cross her legs, Right leg over the left, as so. This will allow your body to be grounded. Lift your chest and allow your head to gently rest, following the curve of your spine. Arms gently against your thighs, hands facing the sky. You want to be as comfortable and aware as your body will allow, so that when you train your mind, you can do so with little distraction or difficulty."

Jack bit her lip as she unbuckled the thick straps that secured her boots to her thighs, popping them off to the side, out of sight and out of mind. She adjusted her body according to instruction, finding some difficulty staying still, constantly making minor adjustments through Samara's calm instructions.

"Training the mind is more difficult than training the body," Samara warns, her voice a constant that never lifted nor bellowed. "Our minds trick us. Confuse us. Delude us. Our minds convince us that happiness comes from wanting, from physical needs.. Our minds are destructive, turning our bodies into weapons that work against us. Our mind lives in fear of inevitability - dying, pain, suffering. These situations, we cannot avoid as living beings. But our minds lie to us, and tell us we can avoid them. So we must train our minds, and learn to tame it. They are thresher maws, tearing apart relationships and planets to find fleeting satisfaction."

Jack swallowed, the soft pulses of Samara's voice filling the empty room with the warmth embrace of wisdom learned through years and years of hard experience.

"Bhavana. Purify the mind," Samara continues, her intonation soft yet strong. "Meditation will clear the poison you have accumulated in your day-to-day life. We all live and one day we will die. This is not something we can run from. Accept that life is suffering, and how your mind perceives that suffering depends on how well you purify it. Do not concentrate on delusions. The mindless noise that clouds the true nature of the mind."

"What's the true nature of the mind?" Jack inquired.

"Clarity," Samara answers simply. "Our minds are space, our thoughts stars. The emptiness of space is constant, expanding and moving, but always there. Stars, like ideas or thinking, are born. They shine, they fade, and then they die. But space remains. Now... Close your eyes, breathe evenly through your nose. Feel the air expand your chest. Focus on that breath. Study that breath."

Jack sighed, scratching her nose before closing her eyes and following Samara's instruction. She listened to the internal whistle of every taken breath, feeling it expand and push against her chest cavity before expelling out the tip of her nose. Mentally, Jack counted her breaths... one breath in... one breath out... two breath in... two breath out... and so on. The pattern started to eclipse, and the woman's mind drift from even breathing to a minor ache in her back or the soreness of an ass muscle pulled from her fall earlier. Jack made adjustments, and then returned to breathing... for a few moments at a time, and then her bored mind would drift away from the meditation and into plots.

Jack had to somehow get those data entries from Miranda's office. In the note, Shepard said that the crew was on shore leave for twelve hours, so she had a bit of time to crack into Lawson's office and pull out any records indicative of her past. The bitch belonged to Cerberus, doubtless a loyalist like Lawson kept those entries.

"Your mind is as open and endless as the ocean of space. The waves of stars, those thoughts and ideas, may prick you, but they dissolve into the empty, blackness of water. Peeking rarely, then falling..." Samara hushes.

One breath in... One breath out... Two breath in.. Two breath out... Three breath in... And besides, it's not as if those files weren't promised to her by Shepard. Hell, one of the few reasons Jack agreed to join the Normandy was Shepard's promise. She would deliver those files to her. Nights had come and gone, and the Commander had never given her those files. Jack knew better to ask, but time was ticking, and she needed to resolve some loose ends before throwing herself into the core of this stupid suicide mission. She had to make sure the project was over. She had to go back and rescue any kids that remained subject to Cerberus's experiments. There was no way Jack would allow another child to endure what she had to endure.

And then, and only then, would she paint the walls of that fucking laboratory red with the blood of Cereberus.

"... Our minds see fear. Our fear of suffering, of death, of unhappiness. Our minds trick us. We think we can avoid these realities by wanting the material, or responding through anger. Do not be fooled. You have to train your mind, and embrace enlightenment's eternity."

Jack frowned. Samara's lessons were hitting too close to home. It was as if the asari warrior read her mind, peeking through the convict's plots and ideas, unfolding the turmoil, fear, and sadness that consumed her thoughts day-to-day. Grimacing, she dropped her head, breaking her posture as both hands braced the back of her neck. "Easy for you to say. You're like, what... hundreds and hundreds of years old? I don't even know _how_ old I am. This is such bullshit."

The convict shook her head, enraged, "What _peace_ are you talking about here? What enlightenment? And don't tell me anger is a delusion. I need anger. Anger is the only fucking thing that keeps me going. I don't know _anything_ else. This is the only way I know how to survive, so don't fucking tell me it's wrong."

The spill interrupts the silence, Samara's whispered breathing following the words as they hit the ground like shattering glass. The justicar's head tilted, then turned to regard Jack who only glared back. "It's wrong."

Jack snarled, shaking her head, "You can't just say that. You can't just _say_ that."

"Jack. It's wrong," Samara repeated. "Hatred and pain only begets more hatred, more pain."

"It also begets a lot of killing," Jack growls.

Samara hushed... and then, gently, "When you kill, how do you feel?"

"Relief," Jack snaps back. "Relief that one more person can't kill me."

"Is that relief long-lived?" Samara continued.

"... No..." Jack continued. "No it isn't."

"So then, what do you do?"

"... I kill again."

Samara nodded curtly, her voice still warm and powerful, unwavering in its conviction. "You kill again. And again. And again. Do your feelings change?"

"No."

"Perhaps," Samara suggests, "Your solution isn't a solution, but only an extension of your problem."

"So what if its a problem?" Jack snaps back. "I'm a problem. My whole attitude is a problem. Who gives a shit? At least I'm still alive."

"But how happy are you, with your life right now?"

Samara's sharp response stunned Jack. The asari continued, never pushing, only extending. "We live in cycles. Ancient asari believed these cycles replicated the path of the goddess Athame. Maiden, Matron, Matriarch... and then, again, Maiden, Matron, Matriarch. Reborn again and again, forever learning from our past mistakes, forever correcting our mistakes, trapped in a loop of reincarnation until we reach a moment where we are able to break the cycle."

The asari continues, gentleness peeking through the lessons and wisdom of her words. "Athame taught us how to recognize these cycles. My code is born from these teaches and recognizing the ways to break from the shackles of these circular cages, to save others from these cages be it through death or protection. If we do not tear away ourselves from the narrowness of our own attachments and emotions, we doom ourselves to perpetual darkness. I warn you. Do not stay trapped by this cycle of hate. You will learn nothing from it, and only reap further anger, hatred, pain, and sorrow."

Jack swallowed, one eye peeking at the justicar beside her. Samara watched her, no passing judgement crossing her features, no anger or sadness or frustration or contempt. Only calmness, a gentleness uncommon to Jack, "... Why do you care."

"I care because I am a mother," Samara answers evenly. "And you are a daughter without a mother."

The stillness between them cemented a strange bond Jack could not quite describe. She raised her head, fully looking at Samara, finding the courage not to avert her gaze or run away. They sat there in silence, simply gazing at one another. The convict licked her lips, stomach turning. She could feel her body cramping, emotions raw. Before she could cry or outright punch the window, the convict abruptly stood up and responded the only way she knew how. By turning around and leaving that room.

"Jack," Samara called after her. "Do not let your mind remain untrained. Do not follow in her foot steps."

Jack stopped, back facing the asari warrior. The prick of tears were already stinging her eyes, voice choked. "What do you mean?"

"I know who you are," Samara warned. "I know the crimes you've committed. Were I not bound my oath, my code clearly outlines that I should kill you. But, circumstances are complicated. If these reapers are real, then my energies are better spent quelling a greater evil. This is a window. You can still redeem yourself. Do not waste this gift."

Jack sniffed, running her hand over her nose before turning to regard Samara, "... What do you mean, 'follow in her foot steps'?"

"Shepard has done great harm to many, unapologetically."

"... How do you know...?"

Samara shook her head, standing to her full height and meeting Jack's pained gaze, "She confesses her past and present crimes regularly to me, and not for good reason. I believe she is testing the limits of my code, my loyalty, and my oath. I will not yield, but should we survive this mission and this possible reaper threat, my code demands I resolve the problem."

"What... did she do...?"

"It is not for I to discuss. But..." Samara's eyes wavered, shifting to the ground then back to Jack. "Take this as a warning. Do not follow in her foot steps."

Jack nodded slowly, before turning away. She did not respond.

* * *

><p>Later that evening, Shepard unceremoniously dropped into Jack's lower bunk. She peeled off her clothes, dictating that she wanted Samara's tattoo braced between her shoulder blades instead of the small of her back.<p>

The convict complied, wiping off the sweat and brushing off a layer of dead skin before flipping on the tattoo gun. For the first time, Jack had free range to work, allowed to paint by inspiration instead of dictation. The convict outlined in deep mahoganies, blues, and yellows the flat, ancient images of Athame and her guides Janiri and Lucen, the images fixed into three circles, interlocked by intricate knot details that had no beginning or end. Maiden, Matron, Matriarch, forever connected, forever trapped in that cycle, forever renewed, continuing eternally cycle after cycle after cycle. She switched from left hand to right, working in the striking details and maintaining the balance of three primary colors - outlined in black, flat without shading.

Finally satisfied with her work, Jack placed her tools aside and soaked a clean towel with a mixture of ointment and alcohol, listening to Shepard hiss as she rubbed the mixture across the woman's tender back, wiping off the excess blood and appreciating the beauty of the ink etched across inflamed skin.

Shepard didn't bother to ask for a mirror, waving the suggestion away like an annoying fly, "I'm sure it'll suffice."

"Whatever you say..." Jack mutters, taking apart the tattoo gun, cleaning the tools with rubbing alcohol before delicately setting them into that dingy blue box.

The commander stretched, picking her clothes off the ground and sliding on each piece unceremoniously. The convict watched only briefly, snapping off the latex gloves and throwing them into the garbage nearby.

"Hey." A pair of datapads flopped onto the bed near Jack, orange screens flickering like gold. Brown eyes flickered across the paned screens, eyes wide and brows raised, lips parted as she recognized the words burned over the surface.

Project Subject Zero - Pragia

"I keep my promises," Shepard states.

Jack swallowed, shaken, confused, uncertain, scared, afraid... afraid...

The commander rolls her shoulders, "Do with it what you will. It's none of my business."

"Yeah..." Jack hushed, pushing aside her equipment, collecting the data pads.

Shepard only shrugged before walking away, the tattoo of Athame and her disciples peeking underneath the straps of her vest. Jack pursed her lips.

_Do not remain trapped by this cycle of hate._

Jack's hands started to tremble.

It was pathetic.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>

**ME3 SPOILER GUYS. OMG!**

**So yeah. Taking liberties with the whole Athame-is-actually-a-prothean asari religion. You know. Teaching asari to 'break the cycle', preparing them to get AWAY from the cycle, evolve BEYOND the cycle, etc. Prothean teachings gone wildly, wildly astray in the hands of asari. The philosophy is good, and totally workable, but not what Athame meant.**

**This is less of a Foucault chapter, more of a Jack-Samara chapter. But people have a life outside the Commander. These breaks are important.**

**Also - I still love ME2 more than ME3. Maybe it's because ME3 takes itself waaay tooooo seeeerious? I dinno. But, replaying ME2, I really missed some of the more sweeter parts.**


	6. Brood Brothers

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**BROOD BROTHERS  
>Urdnot Wrex's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history. Pre Omega Relay - End  
><em>

* * *

><p>Yellow dust crunched underfoot, a myriad of rocks and dry bone crackled under Jack's thick, black boots. The hot sun provided a dry, persistent heat that picked at the ground and eroded rock, scorching winds picking up dust, diaphanous beige clouds blanketing pockets of parched ground. A group of krogan peered curiously at Jack, a sea of flashing teeth specking reptilian smiles menacingly.<p>

Earlier, Shepard warned Jack not to smile back unless she was prepared to kill or be killed. Presenting your teeth to krogan was akin to drawing your weapon and pulling the trigger. You don't bare your teeth in a culture molded by predatory instinct. It was dangerous.

Jack frowned, hands buried into her pockets as she trailed languidly behind a few of Shepard's chosen. The salarian doctor, Mordin Solus, tread carefully - shoulders tense with one hand gingerly tucked near his back, fingers testing the holstered hand canon. The turian, Garrus Vakarian, tensely matched Zaeed Masani's walk, respectfully avoiding the aggressive jeering snarled by the welcoming entourage. The young krogan, Grunt, expressed little respect or care. Much to Jack's interest, he mirrored Shepard's motions perfectly, heavy feet copying her smaller, languid walk. When she rolled her shoulders, Grunt rolled his. When she'd glare at a snarling krogan, he'd copy the nasty stare. It was like watching a kid carved from seven feet of brick emulate his favorite popstar, hissing when she did, walking how she would, shadowing all of her habits and motions.

Jack, however, just stuck at the very tail end of their weird motley crew, paying little attention to the harsh sentiments flanking their crew, and wondering what the hell Shepard was trying to get at by inviting a turian, a salarian, and a blue suns veteran to a demilitarized zone occupied by the sons of slaughtered krogan. Shepard's present appearance helped little, cobalt blue face paint copied from Vakarian's turian tattoos*, freshly glistening in the sun.

Still, the commander tread forward, ignoring the jeers and insults as the odd assemble approached a large throne carved out of yellowed stone. Krogan gathered around the massive structure, shouting and growling at each other in what Jack could only assume was their idea of diplomacy. Shepard stepped over a few unconscious bodies, dipping down to collect a neglected shotgun.

Shepard proceeded to unceremoniously thrust the shotgun's barrel between the eyes of the throne's guard.

Jack could feel her heart leap into her throat. Mordin's fingers twitched, Vakarian cautiously stepped backwards into a cursing Zaeed. Grunt, loyal kid that he was, pulled out his own shotgun and backed behind Shepard.

"Hey," the commander whistled lowly, flashing her teeth as she smiled dangerously. "How you doing?"

"What are you playing at, human!?" the guard snapped. The senatorial argument ceased, the click and whirr of hundreds of guns trained on Shepard's head rippling around the small crew. Mordin Solus pulled out his handcannon as his omnitool glowed eerie red, preparing a double attack. Garrus Vakarian had ducked under their feet, pulling out his assault rifle in a ready sweep. Zaeed calmly pulled out a grenade, bouncing it from hand to hand as mismatched eyes picked apart the pool of sharks swirling around them.

Jack snarled.

"Hah! Hahahaha..." The laughter bellowed above them. A large, ochre colored krogan stood from the throne that arched over their heads. A giant of a creature, the alien stood at full height, a good seven feet of muscle, rock, armor, and thick flesh. He stood profile, one blood-red eye fixed on Shepard, nostrils flared and grey teeth gently glinting in the sunlight as he smiled.

His smile took Jack by surprise. The krogan smiled less like a krogan and more like a... well... like a human.

Both arms spread wide, tension gutted by the leader's warm tones, deep, cracked voice welcoming, warmer than Tuchanka's spit fire sun. "Jane!"

The commander grinned, thrusting the shotgun into the guard's arms as she left the ocean of deadly krogan and her tiny, insecure crew. Garrus Vakarian raised to his feet, holstering the assault rifle as he shook his head, a deep hiss whistling between the plates of his carapace, "... I wish she'd stop doing that..."

Ignoring Vakarian's exasperated tones, Shepard collected the krogan's thick fingers between her small hands. Reaffirming the trust, the giant alien slapped a hand over her shoulder. "I knew the void couldn't take you."

"Oh, it did," Shepard corrected. "But apparently humanity thinks I'm so important that they are willing to dump billions of dollars into my resurrection."

"Is that so?" The krogan hummed. "Weird. Thought you didn't get along with humans..."

Shepard shrugged, "And I thought you didn't get along with krogan. Look at you now. The King of Tuchanka."

The krogan chuckled, the sound deep and threatening. "I have a responsibility to my species, whether I like it or not."

"Same here," Shepard nodded. "Same here."

"... What is going on here?" Jack whispered, sauntering closer to Garrus Vakarian who seemed less confused and more annoyed, head turn downcast and eyes rolling during key opportunities with the occasional sigh.

The weapons specialist shifted his weight backwards, watching Jack with one sunken blue eye before his attentions fixed pinpoint on the commander and the krogan. They both proceeded to laugh at some in-joke that went over everyone's heads. "You know how the Commander lacks a winning personality and gets along with... well... no one?"

One brow arched, red lips twisted, "Yeah? So what's _this_ then?"

"Well..." Garrus coughed, mandibles flickering as he mocked clearing his throat. "Meet Urdnot Wrex. Shepard's krogan equivalent."

The convict stared, brown eyes snapping between krogan and human as they both guffawed at another set of ridiculous jokes, understood by no one but each other. Shepard grinned like an asari maiden, body language relaxed and copying the krogan leader's expressions and motions unconsciously. Similarly, the krogan responded by mimicking her own body language, smiling gently or flailing his hands in a weird myriad of cross-cultural references, some strange melting pot of krogan-human conversation. The commander turned her head profile, one eye peering at Wrex sharply as he continued to face her forward.

It weirded Jack the fuck out.

"A krogan Shepard...?" She hissed. "That's... That's..."

"Dangerous?" Vakarian offered. "Yep."

"What's with the face paint, Jane?" Wrex bellowed, one hand clawing his own scarred cheek. "This some human custom I don't know about?"

"Actually, Vakarian adopted me into his colony before we landed," Shepard rolled her shoulders. "I didn't want to run around blank-faced... bare-faced... whatever they call it."

Wrex laughed, one hand slapping down on Shepard's shoulder as he returned her friendly grin, "And you bring a salarian, a former blue sun, and a turian with your entourage into the hot bed of Tuchanka. Never lacking a quad there, Jane."

"Nice to see you too, Wrex," Garrus sarcastically remarked, hands braced on his hips, cheek plates fluttering.

The krogan snorted, inclining his head before pointing directly at the turian, "Nice set of scars there, pup. Looks like you finally grew a second pair, joined the big boys."

Vakarian shrugged, shifting his weight to the right leg and thrusting his hip in Shepard's direction. The commander peered at the turian, puffing her cheeks once, eyes narrowed quizzically. Garrus's cheek plates fluttered once, before sweeping his hand in a circular motion around him. The human blinked, grey eyes drifting from crew member to the general vicinity, regarding the large ensemble of shotguns, assault rifles, spears, knives, missile launchers, and semi-automatics trained directly on her head. "Oh, right... Uh... Wrex?"

"Hah! Right, almost forgot..." Urdnot Wrex extended both well muscled arms towards the sky. Hundreds of eyes fixed on the giant, guns trained on Shepard and the rest of her crew. Wrex's warm tones shifted to a harsh bark, his voice carrying across the dead lands, shadowed by an echo, "Holster your damn weapons. These are guests of Clan Urdnot. If I see any sign of stupidity, I'll personally rip your quad off piece by piece and feed it to the varren pits."_  
><em>

A chorus of groans and murmuring protests rose from the circling sharks. The soft whirr and hum of guns compartmentalizing buzzed the air, though hundreds of reptilian eyes remained glaring, watching for a misstep or a show of weakness. Jack sneered, cracking her knuckles and joints in her own savage display of aggression. Zaeed dropped his aim, lighting a cigarette while growling something about stupidity and thick skulled lizards ready to make his day.

Wrex turned his head dangerously profile, red eye peering directly at the former Blue Suns mercenary, black pupil dilating from a full circle to vertical hairline, twitching back and forth as it studied the old human. He snarled, spit spraying between thick, yellowing molars, "Jane, this one's an ass."

The commander shrugged. "It's why I brought him. If he gets out of hand, you've got my permission to pick at his bones. But, I warn you, the guy has a nasty reputation for outliving everything. And he's killed krogan. By throwing _knives_ at them."

The krogan chuckled, sauntering backwards into the massive, sand carved throne, "What a thoughtful gift, Jane."

"... _What?_" Zaeed snarled, whipping around and nearly spitting the newly lit cigarette right in Shepard's face. "What the _fuck_ does he mean by that, Shepard?"

The commander only blinked innocently as Garrus let out another exasperated sigh.

"Don't twist your quad off now, mercenary," Wrex spat, settling into the hard seat. "I've got more important matters to deal with than play with a toy. Thanks but no thanks, Jane. I appreciate the gesture."

The commander mock saluted and winked. Zaeed cursed.

"So you're here to recruit me, I take it?" the krogan hummed mirthfully, weight sinking deeper into the throne.

The convict watched Shepard smile, hands gingerly touching one of the throne's arms and leaning into the giant stone-carved chair. There was a warmth and familiarity uncommon in the woman. She was open and trusting, mirroring the krogan's body language. The cold, callous wall all but dissolved in the ochre giant's presence.

"... Why is she being so... _nice_?" Jack asked Garrus, watching the surreal exchange unfold.

Vakarian shook his head, leaning towards the convict, his voice barely a whisper, "It's... complicated. To say the least. But... Wrex is the _only_ individual Shepard has ever publicly respected. It's a very, very long story."

"She doesn't respect you?" The convict inquired, one finger mimicing the turian patterns Shepard displayed for all the world to see, painted bright blue on her own face.

"Well..." Garrus grunted, the vibrations of his voice rattling Jack's teeth. "Trust? Yes. Respect...? No. No, Shepard reserves all respect for Wrex. And only Wrex."

"... Why...?"

"Because Wrex can kill her," Vakarian whispered. "And has chosen not to."

Jack's face fell, red lips tight and expression numb as she watched the commanding officer and the 'King of Tuchanka' chat pleasantly, trading teasing stories and warm insights. 'How is the Normandy?' 'Oh rebuilt by Cerberus. Who rebuilt me.' 'So I take it you'll be stealing the ship soon enough?' 'Oh yeah. I'm already working on independent funding. Not the brightest group in the galaxy...' 'Any of the old crew?' 'Joker, Tali, Chakwas...' 'Tali's with you? Why didn't you bring her over to say hello?' 'I was hoping I might lure you onboard the ship. Give you a tour. Besides... I didn't want to get her caught in a crossfire if I could help it.' 'Smart smart...' 'So... you rule Tuchanka now?' 'Tuchanka's a big planet. I'm reuniting the clans, though. Figure... if we're gonna have to face giant space bugs again, might as well have numbers...' It was like watching a brother and sister reunited after space camp or some shit.

"Well, the real reason I'm here is business," Shepard states honestly, thumb pointing back towards the Normandy ensemble. "I've got a doctor looking for some information about some sort of salarian scientist buddy of his, and a krogan whose been smashing the interior of my ship to pieces."

Wrex snorted, rolling his shoulders as various joints popped like bullets. "I don't know anything about a salarian. You should talk to one of my scouts 'bout that. Tuchanka's a big planet, Shepard. Dinno if he's in the area.."

"He is in the area," Mordin piped, interrupting the krogan.

Urdnot Wrex glared at the salarian, eye fixed on the amphibian as he continued, "As for the krogan... you know the only cure to that is a good whipping."

Shepard shrugged, "Tried that. Nothing. Not sure what's up."

The krogan hummed, a gentle growl rolling from his throat, leaning forward as both eyes focused on Grunt. "Come 'ere pup. Lemme get a better look at you."

Grunt complied, climbing the steep hill, tawny muscles flexing under skin and scale. Wrex's nostrils flared, soft snorts sharing the violent noises echoing in the background, varren yelping and krogan clashing into each other adding to the environment's distress. Both eyes grazed Grunt, traveling up and down, investigating the newcomer, "He's young..."

"Yep."

"Since when did you start adopting krogan pups, Jane?" Wrex hummed, tilting his head pleasantly as he continued to evaluate the male. "What clan you from, whelp? Was it destroyed by a rival?"

"Shepard did not adopt me," Grunt corrected bluntly. "I have no clan. Shepard removed me from a tank."

"Okeer ring a bell?" Shepard helped, fingers threading the air. "He was running experiments, trying to create the perfect kroga-"

"No offense, Jane. But I'd rather the whelp speak for himself," Urdnot Wrex interrupted.

Jack near about dropped her jaw as she watched Shepard nod and comply to the krogan's ruling instead of insulting or responding with injury. What. The. Fuck. Shepard was practically unrecognizable before this krogan clan leader.

Grunt continued unperturbed, marble eyes fixed on the throned King. "I am Grunt. I was tank-bred by Warlord Okeer, my line distilled from Kredak, Mordor, Shiagur-"

"You recite warlords, but you are the offspring of a syringe."

All heads turned to regard one of the silent warlords that flanked Wrex's throne earlier, black-silver battle armor detailed with bright blue metallic tubes. His back hump was collosal, the bulge barely hidden under the heavy plates of armor. Red skin, dark eyes, green scales, and bright crimson teeth flashed as he spoke, aggressively pushing himself between Shepard and Grunt.

Wrex growled, "...Step aside, Gatatog Uvenk. This is not your concern."

"The future of the krogan _is_ my concern, and this creature smells of artificiality mixed with Okeer's weakness..."

Shepard crossed her arms, grey eyes fixed on the warlord who twisted around, point made, hiding behind them like a snarking shadow.

"I am pure krogan," Grunt emphasized. "Be in awe."

Wrex stood up, stepping down from the massive throne and giant platform, ground vibrating under each heavy step as he regarded the young krogan, "Okeer's a very well-known, hated name..."

"Okeer is dead," Grunt quipped.

"Of course. You're with Shepard. How could he be alive?"

"Get to the point, Wrex," the commander interrupted, hands bracing her hips impatiently. "What's wrong with the kid?"

"There's nothing wrong with him," the krogan leader corrected, bracing Shepard with one red-eye. Jack wondered what was with this guy and why he liked looking at people with one eye instead of two. If the question was still bugging her, she'd have to read the universal codex when they returned to the Normandy.

"Then what is _up_ with him? Why is he punching shit for no reason?"

"Well, for one, he's krogan. For two, he's becoming an adult," Wrex clarified.

Garrus groaned, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, centering the odd ensemble of aliens and humans, "He's a teenager? Can't we just buy him a few drinks on Omega and let him get his rocks off on some asari?"

"If you had any respect for our customs, you'd know there's a bit more to it than that, _Vakarian_," Wrex growls, one thumb pointing at turian while gesturing something to Shepard who, in return, rolled her eyes and shrugged, shaking a head back and forth as if to agree with the krogan's silent conversation.

"I'm _right here_ Shepard," Garrus reminded.

"Rite of passage," Wrex continued, ignoring Vakarian's side. "Grunt, do you wish to stand with Clan Urdnot?"

"This has gone too far, Wrex. This is just... too... far..."

All eyes returned to the snarking shadow, the forgotten impression left by Gatatog Uvenk flashing into full view. Shepard stepped aside before the warlord could trample her, flanked by two guards who snarled, black teeth peeking under the bright, dusty light as they dramatically left the ensemble of watchful krogan, clan leader, whelp, and aliens. "... He doesn't even bother to head butt?" Shepard asked, disappointed.

"He's an idiot," Wrex muttered. "Well, Grunt... What'll it be. Stand with Clan Urdnot?"

"It is what I am," Grunt answers simply.

"Well then. The Shaman will return tomorrow morning. We will make preparations for ceremonies if you complete the Rite tomorrow... I have a feeling you'll be just fine, so I'll go ahead and make arrangements for the female clans to join the following eve. Jane?" Wrex nodded, regarding Shepard. "I will make accommodations for you to sleep here tonight, for you and this crew."

"Uh..." Garrus started. "I don't think that will be necessa-"

"Absolutely," Shepard interrupted, "I take it we will be sharing your space?"

Wrex smirked, "Of course. Just make sure the humans don't smile or flash their teeth... you know how we feel about that, and you know how much humans love smiling."

They both exchanged an understanding grin.

* * *

><p>Mordin, Garrus, Zaeed, Grunt, and Jack all bunked separately. Jack's designated room was hardly comfortable. The krogan lived in ruins, beds, chairs, tables, and all other surfaces were either carved out of sandstone or rocks piled together. It was hardly a comfortable evening, and Jack was tempted to sneak away, back into the comfortable hidey space below the Normandy's engineer deck. Down the hall, she could hear Shepard's chorus of laughter mingling with the Urdnot clan leader's, their conversation peppering in echoes that brokered the night.<p>

Shepard's happiness was incredibly off-putting.

The convict groaned, cradling the back of her head as she searched the ceiling above, cold-dry night wind blowing through open windows and pricking her skin. The weather on Tuchanka was not kind. When it was hot, it boiled. When it was cold, it froze. Nuclear wasteland ruined Jack's appetite for Tuchanka vacations.

"Heeeeyyy."

Jack perked, registering Shepard's teetering figure, hip pressed into the door frame - arm sweeping back the tapestry that covered her room's entrance, "So now... Now I'm really for real drunk."

Jack rolled her eyes, sitting up on the bed as one hand swept towards a hand-held lamp, electric hum buzzing as artificial light flooded the room. Shepard started to strip, taking off the breast and shoulder plates, then peeling off the black microfiber weave and skeletal latice. Pale flesh peeked under the soft light, tossing the Ariake armor off to the side before sitting right next to Jack, not waiting for an invitation.

"You brought your inking equipment," Shepard asked in a slur. Her breath smelled putrid, like blood, battery acid, and vomit.

Jack winced, gagging on the scent, "You asked, I brought."

Jack pulled out the blue tin box, thumbs unlatching the dented compartment, pulling out the parts and assembling the gun. She checked the back binding, the post, and tapped the frame - a delightful ring peeking the quiet. Jack threaded the needle through the barrel before loading it onto the machine, attaching the larger end to the frame. She attached the loop to the back of the needle on the front edge of the armature bar, using rubber bands to hold the needle back and keeping it tight against the back of the tube. This would make the needle move in and out of the tube, without moving around too much as she worked.

Jack bit her lip, adjusting the tube down until only a 16th of an inch showed at the tip, where it would penetrate the skin. She had to be precise. Too little needle meant that the ink would not dig deep enough under the skin, and too much would overwork the skin - causing more pain, more bleeding, and a less precise design.

She connected the machine to her analog power source, one foot pressing into the foot pedal after switching the power source. The needle bobbed up and down rhythmically and triumphantly. "So, what'll it be?"

"Four long claw marks in ochre red," Shepard states, one hand patting over her right breast. "Here."

Jack nodded, pulling out the inks, "Like your krogan buddy's..?"

"Wow. Look at you... capable of deductive reasoning," Shepard mocked.

The convict rolled her eyes, "And what about that turian paint splashed all over your face? You want me to make that permanent?"

"Not yet," Shepard states. "No... Not yet. I'm still not sure about that yet."

Jack furrowed her brows, pumping red ink through the tubes and repositioning the lamp for better light. "Why not?"

"None of your business, that's why not," Shepard snapped. She sighs, and leans back, sprawled across the hard surface of the bed, Jack kneeled over her like a giant vulture ready to pick her skin clean.

Jack narrowed her eyes, "... All right... What's the story with you and the krogan, anyways? You two are very... friendly..."

"Are we?" The commander inquired, hissing as the needle poked her skin. "I guess we are..."

The convict bit her lip, guiding the needle's travel as it thread red ink across the white flesh, sewing deep crimson lines against the canvas of taut skin, ink mixing with blood, deepening the flood of color. "Vakarian told me it's because he can kill you and chose not to. That's why you like him so much."

Shepard sighed, expelling air in soft patterns, breathing into the pain. White teeth glinting in short grimaces, "Did he also tell you I almost killed Wrex and chose not to?"

Jack lifted her foot off the pedal, brown eyes flickering up and matching the woman's stern, flashing grey eyes. The gaze was unsettling, burying into Jack's stare.

"Wrex and I are brood brothers," the woman continued. "We are... alike in every respect except species. Humans hate me, Jack. The alliance needed me because I got dirty shit done. Cerberus wants me for something, not sure what yet, but it isn't just to give me a repurposed ship and a billion dollar body. Humans _hate me_. I lack human morality or the ability to bond with our species. I have no compassion. No inkling of what's right or what's wrong. Hell. I don't even _think_ like a human, a 'normal' human. I'm wired differently. You're all just pieces of data, little parts based on a scale of usefulness to get the job done. You think you are such a badass bitch, Jack? Cruel and hard and kickass? It's all show. I chose to be hard, did you choose to be hard? Or were you forced?"

Jack opens her mouth to respond, but Shepard waved it away, making up her mind.

"Wrex is no different," Shepard mutters. "I've yet to meet a krogan who likes him, though he tells me the females respect him. He lacks their blood rage, you know. Blood rage is a genetic mutation that fucked up their entire species after the nuclear holocaust... those who had that added aggression actually survived turf wars. Wrex is a mutant among mutants, I guess you could say. He's old blood among thousands of years of new blood. He doesn't have blood rage. He is capable of thinking out his problems, and because of his creative ideas, he comes across as anti-krogan, hell... even a threat to krogan tradition. But despite that, he's fucking saving his species. Why? Because they need him. Just like humans need me. No one wants to admit it, but the shit people fear, is the shit they need."

Jack sighed and continued etching the long scars, illustrating Shepard's flesh torn above her breast in deep arches, flaps of skin framing each artificial wound.

"Neither of us want to be here... but both of us have to be. It has to be us," Shepard whispers sadly.

The convict grimaced, but said little, knowing better than to argue these drunken confessions. What happened during these tattoo sessions was sacred. The commander treated this as a holy confessional, though respected Jack little despite her work. Still, she kept coming back, each time. And each time, Jack learned a little more, unravelling the mystery and applying it to her life, inking and illustrating the points across Shepard's skin, molding the woman into a piece of art that Jack and only Jack could perceive.

All of these people. All of these people saw so many different aspects to Shepard's personality, multi-faceted as it was. A criminal to Samara, a hard leader to Jacob, a brood brother to Wrex. They all saw only one side to her. Jack, however, saw them all, stitching the personalities across Shepard's skin, sewing the woman together.

"It has to be us," Shepard repeated. "Someone else would get it wrong."

Jack nodded, silence encouraging Shepard to continue speaking as the needle stitched Shepard's love for Wrex over her right breast.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>

*** Kingdom of Rust - in Chapter 2 'Face Paint', Shepard has Garrus essentially 'adopt' her into his colony by replicating his tattoos across her face with paint (It isn't permanent at this point). These fanfics lapse together, just in case you were confused.**

**Discovered a wonderful band called 'A Tribe Called Red' recently. Their album is free online, but you should definitely donate a little money if you like it.**

**These next few chapters are dedicated to Grunt and Mordin. The smiling cultural bit, I give credit to Sinvraal - her idea, not mine, and I've loved it ever since I read it some time ago.**

**Anyways, we desperately needed to get off that Normandy ship. I can only write so many sentences describing Jack's room until I'm sufficiently crawling from house arrest.**


	7. Thresher Maw Tongue

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**THRESHER MAW TONGUE  
>Urdnot Grunt's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history. Pre Omega Relay - End  
><em>

* * *

><p>Fingertips traced the hot sand stone, black paint pigments flaking under her nails. An ancient painting decorated the wasted palace walls, disjointed shapes washed out by sand storms and wear over time. Green rays circled the illustrated beast's head, claws extended and piercing through the heads of smaller krogan silhouettes. The tail lashed and turned in circular directions, violently framing the old mural with interconnecting knots.<p>

"Kalros, mother of all thresher maw," A deep voice murmured beside her.

Jack turned to regard the company that flanked her. The krogan peered at her with one dark eye, black fabric weaved with red canvas bracing the colossal back hump shadowing his shoulders. Thin fabric buckled around his body instead of armor, leaving the alien exposed to the elements and back stabs of his peers. The convict raised a brow, biting a lip as she regarded the stranger.

"Our ancestors admired and respected thresher maw," the stranger continued, scaled, parched lips pressed tight against black molars. "In ancient years before the nuclear winter, our capitol flanked Kalros's nest. She was the kingdom's defense. When rival states tried to breach those walls, the hammers fell and Kalros came, feasting. The ancestors staved her hunger and she protected them."

The alien hummed, his voice throaty as he vocalized his contemplation. "The Urdnot clan are thresher maw hunters. Our traditions, songs, stories, and rites descend from the males and females who slaughtered Kalros's offspring so none could rival her territory. The Urdnot know how to call upon the maws, direct them to feast upon our enemies. There are stories of ancient warriors who could tame Kalros's babes, and rode on their backs across the sand sea. Have you seen one before, human? A thresher maw?"

The convict narrowed her eyes, shaking her head no. The krogan blinked, a soft growl hissing from his throat, "I do not understand your language, human. Do you not speak?"

"I speak just fine," Jack grumbled. "I meant to say no, I've never seen a thresher maw. But I've heard they are fucking nasty and can kill whole colonies off just by spitting at them."

The krogan guffawed, teeth snapping together as the air rolled out of him in amusement. "Human colonies are weak. Those who cannot stave back a thresher maw deserve to die. We are meat, human. The universe is meat. We feast or we die. So it was written."

Jack perked her brow, really looking at this krogan, really taking in the information. She accepted this survivalist's philosophy. Jack felt welcomed in this carved out world of bloody destruction and violent realities. She belonged here.

"Why aren't you dressed in armor like your other buddies?" The convict asked, one finger lifting up and down, pointing out the krogan's ensemble of vulnerable fabrics.

He sniffed once, "Because I have already proven my strength by sacrificing my identity and self to the ancient ways. No warrior dares to stab a shaman of the Urdnot clan. It evokes evil spirits, not to mention my brothers and sisters would sacrifice him to the thresher maw. I am well protected."

Protected? Why? Because the guy can recite a few songs, dances, and history? How useful was that in a universe of meat-eating meat, do or be dead? Jack shook her head. The shaman's existence seemed contradictory among those carved from violence and brutality. The concepts of loyalty, trust, and love eluded Jack. She was betrayed, fucked over, and hurt too long to know such things, though the woman knew such things did exist, though never for her.

A loud shrill broke the stagnate air outside. Jack could hear a human woman cry out, a loud trilling with the tongue that pierced the air in a continuous, high-pitched tone. The ecstatic sound lent to excitement. The shaman next to her hissed, a low rattling noise whistling between thick molars. Slowly, Jack could hear a tide of combined pitches, the deep hissing echoing the trail of ululation.

"The krantt as returned," the shaman announced in rich tones, walking down the beaten stone towards a window peeking outside. "A prophecy is fulfilled."

Jack blinked, trailing behind the krogan as the sound of trilling shattered outside, "What prophecy?"

"In the end of times, when sons are born dead and plants wither starved, a warrior molded by the ancestors shall rise," the shaman voiced, emphasizing his D's and S's with a clack, teeth snapping between lips, sauntering towards a window that poured bright, blinding light. "Born from the belly of the stars and mothered by one who shall rip out the tongue of a thresher maw... A high trill will rise from the dead air, krogan shall reclaim glor-"

The shaman stopped and his eyes widened. He hissed low before speaking, words garbled in a rich, alien tongue that did not translate on Jack's chip. The convict blinked, stepping around the krogan as she peered out the window, investigating the outside hub. Krogan warriors bobbed up and down. It gave the appearance of an ocean with plated armor and snapping jaws for tides. Hissing boiled in the air as the warriors moved. Urdnot Wrex stood from his throne. Jack couldn't read the old krogan's expression. It was either serious or grave, no flashing teeth or grinning.

A loud trill trumpeted and the crowd parted. Behind a veil of yellow dust, Jack could see Shepard's outline. Her arms raised, a soft light enclosed her body under an umbrella of neon blues. The commander trilled again, a cacophony of hisses answering in bated reply, the faint cry of other trills echoing behind the sea of warriors - lower pitched, velvet and growled, sounding from the female camps that circled the neutral zone.

Jack narrowed her eyes, deciphering the shapes under the alien light that painted the yellow decay sickening blue. Shepard climbed the beaten path, krogan pushing backwards as she raised a moving, writhing, glowing snake above her head. The massive, organic muscle twitched in unpredictable sequences. Grunt stood behind, hoisting the creature's speckled white tail. They restrained the muscle, presenting it as a gift to the clan leader. Urdnot Wrex watched them seriously. A blanket of mucus and blood covered Shepard's body. Parts of her armor was missing and the shields flickered static, sputtering pathetically. Grunt was no worse for wear, bloodied, bleeding, with chunks of flesh torn out, plates ripped back near the crown of his head.

"My krantt and I present glory to Clan Urdnot," Grunt rolled, shoulders tense as he raised the alien creature higher. "We are strong, may we lend our strength to our people,"

The ochre giant stared, deep red eyes fixed on the creature's length as it moved, subdued only under Grunt's powerful clasp. Its purple tipped head lashed into Shepard's face, forcing the commander to spit out a nasty curse. Jack couldn't tell where the creature started or ended, but noticed the thicker end oozed a sickly red-yellow color.

"Jane... I've seen a lot of shit in my life..." Wrex started, the deep roll of his voice barreling over the hisses and shouts. "... I've been betrayed by my father on hollowed ground... I've watched a monster overtake the Citadel... Hell, I've even seen an asari willingly undergo the Rite of Passage and become shaman for Urdnot's female clan. Fulfilled prophecies happened many times in the past... but not one so _literally_."

"You know me," the human strained. "Trying to unite the galaxy... and all that."

Wrex's tongue clucked thick against the top of his mouth, sharp sound hissing from his throat. "This takes a _lot_ of quad, Jane."

"Maybe it's time, Wrex. We are only meat, you and I. Take this young one as yours, and take me as your warrior."

"That is a lot to ask, Jane... Many of the more conservative clans won't like this."

"And yet... here I am," the commander shouted. "The mother who ripped out the tongue of a thresher maw and presents _her son_ who is descended from the warrior ancestors." She snapped back at the warriors behind her, daring them. "Here I am!"

Shepard and Grunt dropped the glowing, writhing thing at the foot of Wrex's throne. Jack recognized it. It was no snake, no living creature... but a convulsing tongue, twisting and moving under the dying current of cells exploding with electricity inside the veins. It was a thresher maw's tongue. The convict's jaw dropped, eyes widened, nostrils flared, muscles tense, studying Shepard as she turned to meet the ocean of warriors who continued to hiss aggressively, echoed by the background of females trilling from the protected camps nearby.

"Jane. You put me in a bad... bad spot..." Wrex hissed.

"Wrex, sometimes being a leader means making hard decisions," the commander whistled. "You know that."

The krogan hushed. "I did not think you would go so far..."

"Clearly," Shepard replied. "Clearly you do not know me at all then."

Urdnot Wrex hushed, a thick tongue rolling across his molars as deep crimson eyes drifted from flinching thresher maw tongue to Grunt who thrust his chest out proudly.

"She is worthy of our ancestors," Grunt affirmed. "Shepard is a warrior worthy of the dead. Her body maybe weak and fleshy, but her mind is sharp and her teeth tears flesh as easily as any proud krogan. If you do not accept her, then I do not wish to join a clan stupid enough to refuse her."

The leader sighs, his serious expression lending itself to a more human-like impression. One plated brow raised, features morphed into a strange impression of sadness and confusion communicated to Shepard privately. Shaking his head, the ochre giant pounded his chest with one fist, ferocity and aggression whistling over his body, reaffirming krogan realities.

"Clan Urdnot welcomes you... Urdnot Grunt. Urdnot Shepard..." Wrex shouted.

Immediately, a fight broke out. Heads lashed into heads, the thick skulls of krogan beating into each other as blood ran high, anger and frustration pent into one another. The varren caught onto the blood lust, thrashing into the violence, teeth lashing and blood spilling into deep pools. Wrex said nothing and fell back into this throne, watching the vast plains of blood rage take over his people in a sickening stroke. Shepard pushed Grunt back when the juvenile tried to dive into the blood bath. She knocked her head into his chest once with one quick whip, reminding the young krogan where his place was.

"... Are they all really _that_ pissed they'll just knock each other's brains out until they're all dead?" Jack inquired dumbly, the smell of destruction painting the land a repulsive red.

The shaman shook his head, "This is a prophecy to end all prophecies. Our astrologers have only outlined death as the next course. We shall reclaim glory under the shadow of he who shall ride Kalros, and challenge the void. It has been written. But... his mother is a _human. _This... is considered an insult to many who interpret the ways for their own personal gain."

Jack loved violence. The smell of it, the sound, the screams, the cry, the life. Someone's death was a good reminder how alive she was, one less person to kill her. But this culture of acknowledged murder sickened her. Brown eyes drifted from beast to beast, watching certain warriors fall as the roar of fighting persisted, armor crunching as muscle and flesh collided into each other. They beat into each other, the pulp of red, smell of death, and steaming bodies writhing under the throne carved of stone, Shepard, Grunt, and Wrex watched on stoically.

A wail pierced the clear sky, and the warriors stopped tackling into one another. Another wail brokered from the camp's edge, a sobbing cry that languished with a slow swoop. Soft cries beckoned around the camp. The krogan dropped their weapons and stopped the violent compulsion, falling to their knees as their bodies heaved. The wails continued distantly, the curdling cries falling over the crowd and silencing the pit of destruction. Jack swallowed slowly, brown gaze drifting from the silenced warriors to Wrex whose head drew low, eyes closed and teeth snapped shut. Grunt blinked confused, muscles tense and blue marble eyes following the cries that echoed off the canyon walls in an orchestra of sorrow.

Shepard had launched herself from podium, shoving and pushing against the bodies, kicking them aside and knocking back krogan colored with self-inflicted wounds, trailing towards the beacon of mourning.

"What is happening..?" Jack hushed.

"The song of tragedy," the shaman answered, his voice an eerie disconnect. "The females have birthed another stillborn."

Jack watched as Shepard continued forward. When a male attempted to cross paths with her, she shoved him aside her headbutted him, knocking each aside pathetically as she disappeared behind the ocean of bodies swaying with heartbreak.

"... Where is she going?"

The shaman hummed gently, "Shepard is clan Urdnot now and must uphold our traditions. As a female, Shepard must join her sisters in mourning. We are not allowed to interfere, the rites of the females are deeply respected, sacred, and unknown to males."

The old krogan shook his head, "I must go and speak to the father, to help him prepare the fires if the dead child was a son."

Jack watched with uncertainty as the shaman removed himself from the room. The sound of hundreds crying filled the day and later the night, seizing the warriors into a numb silence.

The convict could not sleep as the mourning cries continued, an orchestra of heartbreak, hiking into the darkness. Sometimes she peeked out the guest room's window, watching the males as they remained - swaying and chanting gently to one another.

The warriors remained stationary until the songs ended, the last cry sounding the next day forward, throaty and cracked.

* * *

><p>"So why did you do it?" Jack asked, pulling out her tattoo gun from that blue chipped case, piecing together the tool.<p>

Shepard looked and smelled like shit. The armor was gone, assuming the dented piece of fused metal and reinforced materials were so badly damaged that repairs would've been a waste of money. Soft fabric folded around her figure, deep mahogany mixed with blue satin that effectively hid the curves of her body. They were loose with inexperienced adjustments made. The robe was better outfitted for a krogan, repurposed for a human's use.

When the commander untied the obi around her waist, the fabrics fell to the floor, revealing a beaten, bruised, badly damaged body that weakened Jack's heart. The perfect canvas looked disgusting, and required extensive repairs before meeting Jack's satisfaction.

"Why did I do what?" Shepard challenged, collecting a rag and dipping it into a hot water basin, wringing excess water from white cotton.

Jack rolled her eyes, "Oh, I don't know... Kill a thresher maw. Rip out its tongue. Fulfill krogan prophecies. Join mysterious krogan females in their song of death."

The commander frowned, "I killed a thresher maw because its fun. I ripped out its tongue because why not. I fulfilled a krogan prophecy because I needed to prove a point."

Connecting the tubes to the supplies, Jack snapped on those latex gloves and studied Shepard carefully. The woman merely glared back, pressing the hot towel over her chest and rubbing off the blood, sweat, dirt, and bruises that clung to pale skin - hot cloth washing over her breasts and around her torso, revealing the canvas of her flesh.

"Yeah?" Jack challenged. "What about the females then? Why did you join them?"

The commander narrowed her eyes, throwing the dirty wash rag back into the basin and collapsing onto the bed, arms raised above her head. "I want you to ink a thresher maw across my belly, twined around my breasts, with the head right under my collar-bone."

Jack rolled her eyes, "Not until you tell me why the fuck you joined the females."

Shepard snarled, "Are you so stupid you need people to constantly answer your own dumb questions? Isn't it obvious, Jack? Isn't it fucking obvious why?" She then closed her eyes. "Just ink the fucking thresher maw."

"Not until you tell me _why._"

The commander frowned, grinding her teeth and arms stretched over her head, hands cradling the back of her neck. She hissed between the gap that decorated her front teeth, aggressive sound adding tension. Jack snarled right back, jutting a finger in the air right between Shepard's eyes, "Fuck you, '_Foucault_'. Fuck. You. You sit here and act like a tough bitch, but you and I both know that between the two of us, we all want a little something. There's always something that's gotta give. You want ink, and I want fucking answers."

"Why the fuck do you care," Shepard snapped.

Jack paused, "Because I want to know if you really are worth this one way suicide march."

Silenced whistled the space between them. Jack bit her lower lip, and Shepard breathed evenly through her nostrils, eyes shut and lips tights. Her face painted an ugly blank, stomach muscles flex, jaw tense, nostrils flared. Slowly, the commander opened her eyes, grey gaze picking at Jack's even stare, red pinpoints of cybernetic enhancements an eerie glow behind black pupils. "I had a daughter that I lost. And now..." Shepard's eyes widened, teeth flashing, face stiff as the words fell from her lips, deep, rich, hopeful. "Now I am a _mother_ once again_._"

That was it. Shepard closed her eyes and said nothing else, stretching out across the bed sculpted from hard, sandy rock. Jack said nothing, choosing not to venture further. This confession was more than an even trade, this information more than what Jack actually bargained for. The convict swallowed slowly and pressed her foot against the pedal, the whirr of the gun bringing life into silence.

The commander's lips parted and she started to gently trill, the song of life thrilling from her throat and coating the room jubilantly. Jack pricked taut skin bright reds and browns, glowing blues and spotted whites decorating the monster's tongue across Shepard's rib cage and belly. Still, the woman whispered the songs of happiness and life, breathing into the pain until the cry turned blank and the skin numb.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>

**Thank you so much for all of the follows, favs, and reviews. They are incredibly encouraging.**

**Also... uh... I did a quick check on how many chapters this story will cover. There will be a lot. A LOT. I'm barely a fourth done.**

**If you like this fic, then you will love:**

**The Lioness and the Bull by ElectricZ - A little Grunt & Jack fun.  
>Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman<br>Breaking Bad  
>Beasts of Southern Wild<br>Beasts of Southern Wild Soundtrack (Which has become this story's soundtrack in my head)**


	8. War of Words

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**WAR OF WORDS  
>Mordin Solus's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history. Pre Omega Relay - End  
><em>

* * *

><p>Urz leapt from sandy patch to sandy patch, purple and tan skin shifting over the curves of sinew and muscle tissue. The varren delighted Jack, blue orbed eyes shining and white teeth snapping in the air as he skipped under the woman's legs, attempting to trip her in some playful mischief. The convinct grinned before collecting a long, hollow bone, throwing it outside the camp's circle. Urz snarled then trampled away, knocking into large rucksacks filled with goods or barreling into frustrated, cursing krogan.<p>

Jack slipped on the single lens covered shades, adhesive temple plates using magnets to keep the reflective shield floating across her eyes. She'd kill for a bottle of eye drops. Dry sand, dry weather, dry sun, and dry heat sucked the moisture from her body, skin tissue cracked and lips flaking.

Picking her teeth with a nail, Jack's gaze slid sidelong, peeking back to the salarian scientist. In most situations, the alien's voice would bob up and down in an enthusiastic, lyrical quality. He had a nasty habit of conducting his full thought process out loud, often without a breath. But for whatever reason, Dr. Mordin Solus decided to hum instead. Sometimes his humming would break into patterns, or drift into a long draw that lifted and fell, black eyes darting back and forth, head moving right to left. Sometimes his humming would become a familiar song, before the noisy tune picked into a conversational tone. He never spoke, never insinuated, never interrupted, never added his two-cent chime.

He would just hum.

It was very weird.

"You have an odd salarian friend," A rich voice intoned near the central hearth.

The camp circled a large fire pit, food hissing above the hot embers. Low flames licked pyjack meat, juices dripping across skinned flesh, greasy fat dribbling a trail of sweat across hissing coals. A number of krogan dressed in maroon and deep indigo silks resembled small quivering mounds around the fire, warmed by the hearth and whispering secrets to one another.

Mordin's humming may have weirded Jack out, but the massive assembly of female krogan was even weirder.

Jack was still trying to make sense of the situation. Namely, how the hell Shepard managed to convince the warriors at _all_ that she could march into the female's sanctuary hauling a crazy, sociopathic biotic bitch and a babbling, former STG salarian savant by her side, and proceed to _leave both unattended_ as she rutted around looking for the female camp's shaman.

Needless to say, Jack did not feel welcome. At all.

Playing fetch with Urz helped to ease her mind. Mordin's conversational humming provided a little distraction. Jack threw hollow bones, complained about the heat, and wisely chose not to make eye contact with wary female krogan who were just as large and frightening as their male counterparts, albeit covered head to toe in broad, decorative silks.

So when one of the females pointed out Jack's _odd salarian friend_, Jack couldn't help but shuffle a foot awkwardly.

"Tell me about it," Jack muttered, casting her gaze outwards to the desert plains where she last saw Urz chasing after that cracked bone. Then, against her better judgement, the convict cocked her head at an angle, leaning her full weight into the sandblock barricade that circled the camp, lifting her head up and down as she regarded the female who spoke to her. "You aren't much like the males, are you?"

All seven bodies turned, a rainbow of gold, black, blue, red, and grey eyes picking across Jack's skin under the golden loops of their woven patterned headdresses. The veils bellowed lightly under their breath, maws hidden under different fabrics. They murmured whispers to one another. Mordin's humming grew just a bit louder, black almond eyes twitching between human and krogan.

"What do you mean, human?" The female inquired, her deep voice a soft rumble.

Jack shrugged, ignoring Mordin's hyper musical head melody. "I mean... We've been standing around here for the past hour, waiting for Shepard to get back and... like... not a single one of you has challenged either of us to a fight."

"Challenge?" The krogan rolled, lifting herself to her feet. "You? No, of course not. You are no challenge."

That caused Jack to bristle, "You wanna bet?" A soft blue glow whistled across Jack's skin, stained red lips twisted into a snarl as she theatrically bobbed her head up and down, regarding the krogan's well-formed physique under the rolls of carpet. "I've easily taken on loads of you. Hell, I've killed tons of fucking biotic-krogans... what do you call them? Battle sages?"

"Battle masters," The krogan calmly corrected.

"Yeah. Wiped the floor with them. I could easily take all of you bitches on."

Jack flexed, blue flames licking off her body as the warm, biotic charge kissed dry skin. Mordin shuddered, lifting his hands as his hum broke into a voice, the words spilling crescendo into a hyper rollercoaster of exploding thoughts, "No. No no no no no. Jack, No. Bad idea. Terrible idea. I do not recommend engaging in conflict with kroga-"

"The salarian speaks," The krogan rolled, "Heed his recommendation, little human. Do not challenge me. You will lose."

"Yeah?" Jack snapped, ego bruised by an anxious amphibian and a lizard wearing a lamp-shade costume. "Scared you can't take it, lizard lips?"

Golden eyes narrowed under the soft, roped loops that circled the krogan's eyes. "Frightened...? Of you...?" Slowly, the female marched forward, her saunter a silky move that forced her sisters to part from the ground and stand around them in strange pairings. They whispered to one another, though all eyes attached in a slow flickering gaze between their sister and the challenger. She moved closer, leather shoes crunching dry dirt and dust underfoot, leaving a trail of deep foot prints as she trekked the ground closer to Jack. The convict bent low, excited smile bracing over her lips. She had never fought a female krogan before. The thought exhilarated her.

Deep, rum gold pools flickered like a tiger's eye gem, black diamond pupil dilating as it flicked over the girl's body, reading the patterns across her skin and sinking flat across Jack's face. "Female, human... young... mature, child-bearing years. Battlemaster... you do not act like most human females... You seek to hide eye contact, but I can see your eyes skitter, your jaw muscles tense when you look at us in the face... you have problems with your wrists, sore, not exercised correctly, perhaps too much writing or drawing or crafts, likely art... Ambidextrous... hnnn hnn..."

"Uh..." Jack blinked, unfurling her fists as the female continued.

"Biotic levels are unnatural... You are incapable of listening to reason and you have difficulties paying attention to details... anti-social... likely prisoned... solitary confinement, exhibits typical asocial behavior. Ah. There it is. The killing blow..." The female whispered, staring at Jack head on, gold eyes slightly cross-eyed in her close proximity. "Tell me, human. Do you enjoy your loneliness? Or is it easier to be alone than to trust?"

Jack stood there, jaw gaping like a suffocated toad.

The female sighed, shaking her head, "You are no challenge."

"You didn't even put up your fucking fists!" Jack slashed back, spit spraying from her mouth as her stomach took a harsh turn.

"You fight like the males," The female responds. "Our approach is more cutting."

"... War of Words..." Dr. Mordin Solus echoed, stunting his hums as he suddenly decided to take part.

The krogan nodded, "Yes. The War of Words."

"The war of _what_?" Jack asked, curling and uncurling her fingers into fists, "What the _fuck_ are you talking about? That's not fighting!"

"The males fight with their fists and their weapons," The female said steadily. "They have forgotten the War of Words, when we cut our opponents by mapping their weaknesses with our tongues. You do not have the gift of words. You are weak, human."

"I am _not weak," _Jack snarled.

The krogan blinked, and sauntered closer - her head rolling, the sound of silk shifting across dry scales, rustling like tumbleweeds and dead grass over sand. She was a good two feet taller than Jack, a small hill of fancy dressings that towered over the convict. Two gold marbled eyes studied her, "Quick to draw your fists... a living weapon, but you do not think before you pull the trigger. You are a wild thresher maw that tears apart everything without thinking about the consequences. Your lack of strategy and planning is befitting of one so naïve."

The words cut her, bit by bit. The convict wanted very much to pummel the female, but whatever the krogan said, drained all the satisfaction and pleasure Jack would get from a physical altercation.

"War of Words, human. The males use shotguns, we prefer detail."

"Krogan are highly efficient predators," Mordin piped, head bobbing as black almond eyes flicked between the two. "Krogan are native to this planet, Tuchanka. Thrive in extreme conditions. Krogan eyes wide-set. 240-degree vision. Greater visual acuity, greater awareness. Also heightened sense of smell..." The salarian sniffed, tapping his lips with one elongated finger. "Able to 'read between the lines'. Evolved to study prey. Evolved to study each other. Evolved to survive. Best means of survival, attention to detail. Physical and psychoanalysis."

"Wait..." Jack blinked, "So, you're saying, this War of Words shit is just one giant psychoanalysis?"

"... Do not assume," the female muttered. "The War of Words is a battle without bloodshed."

"Compromise," Mordin clarified. "Females compromise. Still, female krogan are susceptible to hierarchy. However, strength not determined by brute force, but by nuanced handle of language and skilled psychoanalysis." He hummed thoughtfully, "Pity the males do not follow these traditions..."

"Do not judge our culture, _salarian_," The female snapped, tongue clacking across the roof of her mouth as she glared. "And do not speak in generalizations. There are females who do not have the gift of words. There are males who do have the gift. The male clan leader, Urdnot Wrex, can speak the War of Words. Do not assume you understand."

The doctor sniffed, bobbing his head back and forth, black almond eyes pitched between the female and the paired females behind them, arranged loosely near the hearth. Before Mordin could open his mouth, Jack snatched his arm and dragged the salarian away. "Great talking to you ladies, I think we've overspent our welcome... C'mon Frogboy, we've got a commander to find so we can get the fuck off this piece of shit planet."

The females watched, a spectrum of marbled colors peering as the Jack pulled Mordin away from the sticky situation. The krogan's words prickled her, Mordin's assessment more so. Jack did not like that these krogan were psychoanalyzing her. A good punch in the face was not the same as being picked apart inside out by total strangers. She did not want these predators to map out her insecurities more than they already had. The scientist, for his part, complied with the walk - occupying his head with another string of hums.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Jack snapped, her patience rattled. "Fuck knows you babble more than a two year old, but shit - I'd rather you babble then hum like an idiot all day."

"I have difficulty with linear thinking," Mordin explained. "Thoughts run in multiple streams. Hence talking aloud. Easy to keep one train of thought separate from other trains. Difficult childhood, particularly in school. Always thinking in silence, trapped for days... comatose state, snapped out briefly by training self to talk out loud. Need to think out loud. Harmful to self if silent..." He paused thoughtfully. "Suffer from insomnia for these reasons..."

"But you aren't _talking._ You're _humming."_

"Still auditory string of ideas. We are in female camp. I doubt our company would... relish my thoughts if I spoke out loud instead of humming. Situation requires..." Mordin licks his lips, tongue darting out briefly. "Compromise..."

Jack perked her brow, "Your ideas are that sensitive?"

"Yes," Mordin says gravely. "They are."

It didn't take a genius to answer the doctor's riddle. In one strain of conversation or another, the salarian had informed Normandy's entire crew that he was involved in STG, a salarian espionage organization often deployed to cap off volcanic situations before they erupted into major problems - especially if those problems involved krogan. More reason why Jack wondered why the hell Shepard pulled the old salarian into the female camp. Either she was taunting the clan, kicking Mordin between the legs, or just experimenting for kicks. Why Shepard left Jack to babysit Mordin was beyond her. It was difficult to make sense of the woman, no matter how hard she tried. While Jack could not figure out the commander's purposes, Foucault's actions remained deliberate. To what end remained a mystery.

Jack was starting to get fed up with Shepard's bullshit mysteries.

Hence why she very deliberately stomped right into the last tent Shepard was seen in, dragging the humming salarian behind her.

Blinking into dim light, Jack's senses adjusted to the sudden change. Inside the tent carved from all matter of leathers and carapaces, the temperature was much, much cooler. Scented smoke permeated, thickening the air with gag inducing spices that cleared Jack's lungs. She blinked uncertainly at two shapes obscured by incense, recognizing Shepard's human form and a strange krogan.

"Where's the Shaman, Najar?"

"I cannot say..."

"Where. Is. She."

"Shepard, I cannot say."

The arguments continued to circle. Jack bided her time by shifting her weight from the right leg to the left, brown eyes studying the sanctuary's innards and briefly regarding the salarian, Doctor Mordin, who watched the exchange between human and krogan with rapt curiosity.

Blue incense smoke plumed from a central shrine dedicated to the writhing, silver statue of a thresher maw. Carpets flaked the dusted ground, gorgeous designs illustrating branching trees of krogan silhouettes with golden lettering threaded between the figures. Art, culture, and history permeated within these sacred tents.

This was like no place Jack had ever seen.

Granted, she had met few krogan females in her adventures. Sometimes there would be the occasional female mercenary, and rarer still (though not unheard of) there would be a trader in the Citadel with her wares of traditional carpets, incense, silks, and gifts. Jack was curious why so few lady-krogans ventured outside Tuchanka, but never cared enough to find out why.

"She was here last night, Najar," Shepard's voice murmured evenly. She stood on her tiptoes, gaining some height. "I was here when we prepared the altar for her unborn. Where the hell is she?"

The krogan hushed gently, golden eyes narrowing as they flicked uncertainly from left to right, looking away from Shepard's intense stare. Heavy burgundy and indigo blue silks dressed the krogan's large figure, elaborate gold designs detailed into the fringes. A long veil covered the female's maw, golden loops circling her eyes. Jack had a difficult time deciphering the krogan's expressions, but the female's size was still pretty damn intimidating despite her calm disposition. Jack half wondered what the cultural implications were for the females hiding their faces... maybe she'd ask Shepard later.

"Do not try to intimidate me. You may have fooled Wrex, but do not push me," Najar bristled, tongue clacking and hissing under the veil.

Shepard rolled her eyes, "Jesus... Fucking A... Even the females are idiots. I swear... Hey Najar. Hey." The commander threw her arms in the air, still standing tiptoe in her pathetic attempt to tower over the krogan. "Wake the fuck up. I'm trying to help you. Do we really have to do this the hard way?"

The female krogan narrowed her eyes, deep golden eyes flickering aggressively. "You would threaten me, sister?"

"Don't insult me," Shepard snarls sarcastically. "I follow through."

The commander whistled sharply, bobbing her head up and down before turning on her foot to walk in a circle about the shrine, "You have no wish to tell me where the fuck she is, so I have only to suggest the following..."

Shepard stopped near the thresher maw statue, gingerly collecting a single-stick of incense and rolling it around in the air like a thin conductor's wand. "One, wherever she is, it's somehow beneficial to this clan."

The woman snatched another stick, rotating the long pieces between her fingers, wrist clicking with each turn. "Two, this beneficial bullshit somehow endangers her life."

Collecting a third wand, Jack's eyes followed the ember glow as they moved, tracing smoke across stale air. "Three, she's in enough grief now to endanger her life." Shepard whistled characteristically, peeking up, "Am I close?"

The krogan named Najar said nothing, head bent low and eyes following the smaller human. Shepard clucked her tongue, picking up a fourth incense stick. "Four... Where's the Weyrloc Clan, Najar? Since when does a whole clan of females leave from a neutral zone?" Shepard suddenly thrust one fist out, an incense stick between each knuckle. "The scout probably knows, doesn't he? I have no luck getting anything else out of this camp..."

Najar said nothing, head turned aside. Shepard nodded slowly, placing each incense back into the shrine, "Yeah. I thought so. Excuse me sister, I have to go save our Shaman before she does something stupid. Like get herself killed."

The commander spun on her heel, nodding once to Jack and Mordin, reaffirming her decision to leave. Shepard did not wait for an answer before stepping right out of that tent.

"... Astonishing," Mordin gasped, pulling Jack away from following right after the commander's heels. "... I have never heard of a human victor in the War of Words... simply astonishing..."

The krogan bristled, "It is unheard of for any species. Some asari are capable... this is why many of us are curious yet wary of Shepard... I do not know if she can be trusted."

The salarian narrowed his eyes suspiciously, "Indeed."

Mordin stopped humming at that point on.

* * *

><p>Jack did not enjoy inking bruised bodies. Purpled skin distracted from the art, and added extra difficulties to the healing process. Still, Shepard rolled her eyes before the convict could voice her complaint, waving her hand aside and demanding the drawn cluster of molecules, DNA illustrations, and mathematical modules be illustrated with steady hand across her belly, just above her pelvic bone.<p>

"So what the fuck am I suppose to tattoo exactly? You are speaking in a different language here, commander ma'am. I'm not a fucking scientist," Jack complained, tying the rubber bands around her tattoo gun and preparing the black-grey inks.

Shepard proceeded to roll her shoulders, thrusting a hand in Jack's face. "Pen."

Grumbling a curse word under her breath, the ex-convict dug into a utility pocket before rifling out a ballpoint. It was old-fashioned and stupid, but Jack held onto the pen for when she had to sketch out ideas across her skin for creative reasons. Shepard snatched the thing in rough hands, point grasped between her ring and middle finger as she drew long lines across her belly fervently.

True to Shepard's form, the woman proceeded to take Jack off guard by drawing out the details of her tattoo by using a cheap ballpoint pen upside down over the bruised flesh. The symbols, letters, and equations. Jack's jaw unhinged, staring unblinking as the woman fixed each scientific diagram across her skin. She turned the pen between digits before placing it on the table nearby, flattening her body across Jack's bed. "I will be glad to leave Tuchanka," Shepard stated finally.

Jack narrowed her eyes, snapping latex gloves over her hands and laying a clean, cotton towel plucked white across her seated thigh as she studied the language fixed in pen ink across Shepard's flesh. "So... just like that."

The commander grumbled, running one hand across her nose. "Yeah, Jack. Just like that."

"How," the artist stated, lips opened, eyes fixed on the design, head shaking slightly, "How do you... draw it so accurately without a refer-"

"Goddammit, Jack," Shepard groaned, slapping both hands over her face in frustration. "Stop trying to fucking figure me out and do what I'm asking you to do."

Jack narrowed her eyes and nodded curtly, stepping her foot on pump fixed to the ground. The tattoo gun whirred to life, pumping and moving in a steady vibration that numbed her fingers and wrist. She dipped the tip into a cup of grey ink and leaned over Shepard's bare belly, ready to trace.

Straight lines were difficult, as were geometrical figures. Clean writing that didn't curve or swirl was also very difficult to ink. For many artists, it was easier to hide mistakes by moving your wrist in a circular motion, allowing the vibrations of the gun to move your fingers and joints across soft flesh. Clean, straight, organized shapes required a steady hand and steady concentration. Jack sucked her lower lip in as she traced the modules, rhythmically tapping her foot against the pedal - gun turning on and off as she dipped the tip into a vat of grey or black ink.

Jack preferred free forming her work. The organized structure of Shepard's illustration made her feel mechanical and inexpressive. Jack was less an artist in this situation and more a tool, some factory setting on a sewing machine that just printed the art thoughtlessly across flesh - but with an added perfection and nuance unseen in most programs. Jack was human, after all.

Jack was only half way finished when the sound of feet flying down the stairs behind disturbed her concentration. She slipped her foot off the pedal, wiped the excess blood and ink from Shepard's shallow wound and turned to regard the interruption.

Framing the exit, Mordin's shape slumped over. Arms braced to his knees, panting slightly and eyes boggled to the ground as the whispering of his breath expanded his chest and thumped the silent room. Jack narrowed her eyes at the intrusion, head turning to regard Shepard briefly. The commander remained in a strange meditative state, eyes closed and lips pursed as she breathed through her nose, relaxed. The woman didn't even bother to open her eyes. Jack's gaze turned perplex before sliding back to the salarian scientist, lips puckered and brow raised, "... Uh... Hey Mordin."

"Commander Shepard," The scientist panted, three slender fingers braced over his chest as he gathered himself. "... Pardon the intrusion... But... I was wondering... Well, I suppose I thought it possible that... I don't know if you..."

"Spit it out, Mordin," Shepard sighed, barely stirring from her frozen state.

Mordin licked his lips, eyes darting left to right before switching between Jack and the commander behind her. "I... I changed my mind."

Jack blinked. What? The ex-convict spun to regard Shepard who only rolled her shoulders pointedly, "Funny. I thought you would..."

Mordin narrowed his eyes, "You... You knew. All along. The cure, Shepard. It didn't matter if I destroyed all traces of Maelon's work and... and killed him." The scientist panted, shaking his head, exasperated. "You memorized the cure."

Shepard sighed and finally moved. She was naked, but her nudity did not bother her in front of a scientist and an artist. Jack watched as the woman sat up, feet touching cool tiles as flashing grey eyes leveled Mordin's conflicted stare. "It wasn't up to me to make your choice, Mordin. You had to do that yourself. I'm pleased to see you changed your mind."

The old salarian's lips thinned, pulling back his weight to the soles of his feet as he watched Shepard with what Jack could only assume was salarian awe. "A human with an eidetic memory. I should have guessed... Not just after your victory in the War of Words.. no no no... No, you'd have to have an eidetic memory to be able to assume and borrow physical cultural cues from other species seamlessly..."

Shepard watched Mordin as the scientist tapped his chin hesitantly. "Perhaps side effect of Cerberus augmentation though brain alteration unlikely and too advanced, even for STG laboratories. Mmm.. No, perhaps autistic? You do not like physical contact, forces mimicry of physical language such as human, turian, krogan, asari, even salarian... Seamless mimicry..."

Shepard knit her fingers together, crossing one leg over the other as she studied Mordin from afar. "You told me before you killed Maelon and wiped his findings from that computer that it is vain to do with more what can be done with fewer. That there is always just a simple answer to the problem, and that too much complexity disturbs sound decisions," Shepard smiled cruelly as she mocked Mordin's voice, "'_Unfortunate. Had to be done._'"

Mordin's gaze flinched.

Shepard continued, "The variety of beings should not rashly be diminished. I don't believe in simple answers to complex situations."

Mordin paused, almond eyes flicked and twitched, wrinkled lips flat as he studied Shepard with an eerie awareness, "... Kantian. Fascinating."

"And you are still an idiot, which is hardly interesting at all."

"You tested me," Mordin states.

Shepard shrugged, "You make for a shitty detective, Mordin. I thought I was being overt when I started to mimic your own cues..." The commander started to hum in an eerily familiar tune Jack had grown accustomed to on Tuchanka when in Mordin's company, one eyelid twitching slightly with her head jutted to the side. Blink once, and Shepard's impression of Mordin was eerie and spot on. A brief lapse before she relaxed back to that statuesque persona.

Jack blinked, staring wide-eyed as her gaze flecked between Mordin and Shepard. "What the fuck happened on Tuchanka?"

The commander sighed before fully standing up, framing her fingers over the half etched skin of her belly, half red and swollen from the tattoo ink - black and grey flecks scabbing across wounded skin, the other half ballpoint ink. Both illustrating a cryptic scientific language above her pelvic bone, across the skin of her womb - under the spiraling tail of a thresher maw painted across her chest. "Mordin changed his mind."

Mordin's eyes stayed on the diagrams etched across her belly, lips pursed. "I am sorry."

"Shut up, Mordin," Shepard growls. "Actions speak louder than words. So get to work."

Mordin nodded solemnly, before stepping out of the room - leaving a confused Jack and a smug Shepard. The tattoo artist turned to regard Shepard, gaze twitching between half formed tattoo and the Commander's satisfied face. "What exactly.. is this, Shepard? What am I inking to your skin?"

Shepard smiled, languidly sliding back on the bed as she stretched out like an overgrown cat, smiling dangerously at Jack, "Oh. It's just a cure to a thousand years of pain, humiliation, and bad decisions is all."

The artist narrowed her eyes as the revelation dawned on her. Sighing, the woman pressed her foot to the pump and returned to etching those long, geometrical details across Shepard's pale flesh. All the while the commander breathed evenly through her nose, relaxed, calm, and eerily genteel through the lengthy, painful process.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes::<p>

This took a while. For whatever reason, this was a very challenging chapter to write. ermagerd.

Song -

Crystal Castles - Wrath of God and Archive - Bullets


	9. Lady Noh

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**LADY NOH  
>Kasumi Goto's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history. Pre Omega Relay - End  
><em>

* * *

><p>She walked in circles, feet pounding metal bands that comprised the cramped space's floor. Jack tried sleeping, but would turn over and over, eyes trained on the rails above her bed. Then she'd pick up those data pads and read. Again. And again. Memorizing the clinical information, sterile in its simple outline.<p>

**Project Zero. **

**Teltin Facility shut down, Solar Calendar March 2, 2174 CE.**

**Subsequential damages to property and loss of research.**

**Illusive Man cuts all funding and future inquiries, requests all search parties return to headquarters to prevent further loss.**

**Cleaning teams required to investigate any remaining data. **

**Coordinates: Nubian Expanse / Dakka System / Pragia / 34°37′4″N 117°50′1″W.**

There were images of the facility, the poisonous flora that strangled the building inside and out. Jack flipped to another data pad, eyes fixed on Pragia's detailed information, licking chapped lips and gorging her starving mind on minuet details.

**Choked by the hyper growth of non-native plant species, Pragia serves as a galactic reminder about the imperative for careful regulation during colonization.**

**Two centuries ago, batarian agribusiness chose uninhabited Pragia as their empire's breadbasket. Colonization authorities introduced non-native, industrially-mutated plants that flourished in the world's fertile volcanic soil. Synergizing with Pragia's natural geothermal conditions and chemotropic microbes the imported species soon became a nightmare. Mutant strains of poisonous and even carnivorous plants arose, overgrowing colonies in days instead of years and causing the batarians to abandon their holdings. Because the planet's small animal population is insufficient to check its plant growth, Alliance ecologists predict soil exhaustion in 400 years.**

**Due to its relative isolation and lack of population, Pragia has become a regional haven for drug-runners, weapons-smugglers, pirates, mercenaries, terrorists, and intelligence agents seeking secrecy.**

And like a chain reaction, Jack would flip through codexes explaining Pragia's fauna, batarian agribusiness history on Pragia, colonial reports over the past two centuries, scientific studies using Pragia as an example of invasive-species gone awry, the future of Pragia, and environmental concerns over inappropriate care of life supporting planets in the Milky Way - Pragia as an example of sentient species mishandling native environments.

Jack would read, hungry for more. The data lacked further information about the Tetlin facility or even 'Subject Zero', only those four sentences describing the project's failure, abandonment, and facility site.

Then she'd get up, walk in circles, lay in bed, exercise, eat, and read again. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. It was obsessive.

As the hours passed, Jack lost track of time and of consciousness. Unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she fell asleep.

The dreams returned in strange patterns, a quilt patched by nightmares and subconscious fears. The anger came, bracing over her body... and then she'd kill. She'd kill the dream walkers that occupied her sleep, skinned knuckles pounding the people occupying her head into bloody pulps. Again and again and again.

"Jack?"

The sound lulled her, the voice was all around, sweeping her and pulling her away from the violence like a riptide.

"Jack?"

The ex-convict blinked, the darkness and dreams slipping past her, receding in the back of her mind as a strange voice guides her back into the small, familiar room below the engineer's deck. She frowned, brows furrowed as eyes scan the lair. She could've sworn the voice was coming from directly above her...

"Hey," the bodiless voice continued. "Nice to see you up!"

The voice moved, traveling above her and towards the stairwell, the tone piping and charming, welcoming and friendly. "I hope I didn't startle you. I've been waiting for an opportunity to talk and... well... I guess this is as good an opportunity as I can get."

Jack blinked, sitting up in her bed as a strange woman quietly stepped down the stairwell. Dim light gave shape to a figure swathed in dark clothes, the head-dress and skin-tight jumpsuit hinting at higher quality fabrics. She almost looked quarian, minus important anatomical and cosmetic details such as bird-like legs or the tell-tell helmet. The ex-convict deciphered few recognizable features, regarding the woman's pale skin and the painted lower lip.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"A co-worker," the woman responded in easy charm, crossing her arms under her breasts and leaning against the wall a respectable distance. "My name is Kasumi Goto, and I'm your biggest fan."

Jack blinked. One brow cocked suspiciously as she digested this strange woman and her strange greeting. "My biggest fan?" The ex-convict repeated. This stranger did not look like one of her biggest fans. Jack had met some "fans" after she tore apart a new crater on one of the Hanar's moons. They were often snot nosed kids who'd band together in their united wish to rebel against the rules and their strict parents by robbing two-bit civilian shuttles, claiming _they_ were the infamous Jacqueline Nought.

This Kasumi Goto did not look like any fangirl she had ever seen before.

"Listen, Kasumi. I don't know what you are trying to fish for down here, but I ain't biting. Unless you have something important to say, go fuck off and play with Cerberus."

"Ooooh... Shepard was right. You are angry," a smile painted mischief across the woman's face. Jack's eyes widened, nerves pricking. Kasumi responded by quickly waving both hands in front of her, gesturing peace, "No, let me clarify. I am absolutely in love with your work."

Jack blinked, still confused and doubly irritated. "What _work?"_

"Your art, silly."

The ex-convict's jaw dropped, feeling a bit like a toad with her mouth open stupidly.

"I've watched you work ever since we picked you up from Purgatory. I've never really been a fan of human body art... Always cheap tattoos traced over boring stencils or 'inspired' by poor Japanese motifs. Silly identity monikers that people throw on their skin like graphic T-shirts to impress a certain shallow aspect of their personalities. But you, Jack... You are a master."

Kasumi gesticulated, hands weaving in the air with great animation, smiling widely as the words spilled from her lips. She sounded like a pious hanar describing her favorite enkindler story, though less formal and more descriptive, "When you first came onboard, I was very, very impressed with your body art. I know that someone else helped you put the ink on your skin, but there is no doubt that your designs come from a single artist - you. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier, but I've met moody artists before, and I know better than to be pushy. And... Oh my god, watching you work..."

"Wait... wait..." Jack blinked. "... you've been watching me work?!"

"Oh yes," Kasumi continued. "I followed Jacob and Shepard down here..."

"Followed... You mean stalked..."

"You say stalked, I say followed," Kasumi whistled off-hand. "Anyways, watching you work... And Shepard. That's your work, isn't it? The purple quarian sleeve, the dog tags twined into blooming and dying flowers... your style is so distinctive. Thick lines, a perfect balance of shade and color, oh and the way you use human skin..." Kasumi sighed, "Watching you work with Jacob... what a dream. And the disconnect between the smooth elephant tusk, contrast with Shepard's broken, twisted icon... What inspired that?"

"I..." Jack swallowed, brown eyes shifting from Kasumi to the ground, feeling rather put on the spot. The wave of excitement and adoration that poured from this odd woman flattered Jack. But then the nerves would come. What did she want? Obviously she wanted something. No one just approached her with high words and mighty compliments without wanting something in return. Jack felt buttered up, "Why? What do you want from me?"

"Oh, right..." Kasumi coughed, finger tapping the corner of her mouth. "Well... frankly, I want a tattoo."

"... _what?_"

"No, I mean it!" The woman raised her hands, universal human expression of 'No harm. See no weapons. Please calm down' before she explained herself. "I really do admire your work. You really are a master, Jack. The features of the women's faces across your left arm? Breathtaking... self portraits I take it? You know, Van Gogh did a series of self portraits... Always revisiting himself, redrawing himself, reinvestigating his time and his place, though mostly because few people wanted to sit down long enough with him to have their own portraits taken..."

Jack growled, fingers digging into the palms of her hands, "Is there a _point_ to this story?"

"Well, he lived such a tragic life," Kasumi continued, "And... he saw so much sadness. So much heartbreak. And yet, despite all the pain, no other artist has ever perceived beauty the way Van Gogh did. He lived such a lonely existence, and is still one of the greatest artists to ever have lived. And... your work... your left sleeve... Shepard's tattoos. Especially the one of Tali's headdress? You _see_ the same beauty he did."

"What does it matter to you?" Jack snapped.

"Jack, take it from me. I've seen a lot of art in my life... You haven't reached your pinacle yet, but you have a lot of potential and a gift. People aren't born understanding beauty. You have to see the real ugliness of life to understand the beautiful parts of it. You are... profoundly talented," Kasumi placed one hand over the other. Jack could see the soft spheres of light reflecting from her eyes, the woman's gaze fixed on hers. "I will pay you whatever you want."

Jack pursed her lips, "... What if you did me a favor instead?"

"Well... that depends on the favor..." Kasumi carefully stated.

"Tell me what you know about Commander Shepard," Jack finished. "Tell me, and I'll ink you."

Kasumi flinched.

Jack smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>

:)

What. You thought Shepard was going to get a tattoo every chapter? Nah. Some characters like to get inked too.


	10. Welcome Home

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**WELCOME HOME  
>Joker's story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history. Pre Omega Relay - End  
><em>

* * *

><p>"...So as I was dressing Shepard's wounds, I noticed her tattoo of the asari goddess Athame... That was you, wasn't it?"<p>

Jack groaned, swinging her head back and whacking it against the room's plexiglass mirror with a _thwack_. Dr. Chakwas blinked, alarmed. "Did I say something to offend you, Jack?"

"No. Yes. No, not really, no," Jack grumbled, pinching her nose between her fingers. "Conversations have become so fucking predictable over the past several days."

A steady trickle of officers had awkwardly 'bumped' into Jack over the last week. 'Hey Jack, how's the mission going?' 'Hey, name is Officer Hokama, biotic specialist... heard you are beyond talented.' 'Hi Jack, wanna spar?' was her favorite excuse. While the Cerberus lackies all had a unique way of grabbing Jack's attention, they all shared a common purpose - they were all trying to figure out a nonchalant way to ask Jack for a tattoo.

The older woman's brow raised, the soft fold of wrinkles enhancing her mature beauty. Truth be told, inking Dr. Chakwas would be interesting. She's worked on herself, on young soldiers, asari, and even batarians in the past. An older woman? That could be interesting, challenging maybe. Jack estimated the woman's skin condition by studying her face. "How old are you, Doc?"

"You aren't seriously asking me my age..." Dr. Chakwas rolled her eyes. "You non-space types _always_ ask us our age..."

"What's the answer, Doc?" Jack repeated. If the doctor wanted a tattoo, then the only way she'd get one is by answering Jack's questions. That was the only form of compensation Jack chose to accept. Creds, favors... staff even offered weapons, all for a tattoo. According to Jack, information weighed more than gold. And her clients always paid after a short verbal confidentiality agreement.

"Promise not to tell."

"Scout's honor," Jack crossed her heart, gum snapping between her teeth.

Chakwas shook her head, "I'm 92 years old."

Jack nearly fell off the damn medical bed.

The doctor pinched the nerve between her eyes, arms crossed, treading to her office chair, "I was born on a ship, I lived my life on a ship, and I will die on a ship. I've spent most of my time in a stasis pod, protected by the elements that cause decay and change. The only reason I'm in such great shape at my age is because I rarely directly expose myself to UV rays. Can't stand being too close to a star on a planet, honestly. I have to wear special skin conditioner and shades. Just exhausting wor-"

"Alright, you made your point. What kind of tattoo do you want?" Jack interrupted, snapping her fingers to stop Chakwas's boring story.

Chakwas sat crossing one leg over the other as she shot a nasty glare back at Jack's rude interruption. Sighing, the woman pushed her hair back behind an ear, "How do you know I want a tattoo?"

"What does it matter?" Jack grumbled, "You want one. I can give you one. So what do you want?"

The woman opened and closed her mouth, brow raised, "I... Very well. I would like the Normandy's name across my heart."

Jack sniffed, "Funny. A lot of officers got that lately..."

Chakwas narrowed her eyes, "What? Who? I don't quite follow..."

The biotic neatly lifted her body off the bed and plopped two big boots on the disinfected floor. The smell of antiseptic, bandages, and rubbing alcohol blurred Jack's claustrophobic nose. Fresh air would be nice. "People keep coming by. In and out. Some people are getting tattoos of their kids or someone's name.. or a cross or something stupid like that. The predictable iconic shit we cling to before we die. But then there are people like you and Yeoman and Donnelly who want the Normandy's name tattooed across their ass or whatever..."

The doctor paused, laying one hand over the other politely as she listened to Jack. The doc was always a little too heavy-handed with eye contact. The convict typically looked at the woman's nose, pretending to share a common gaze while the nerves pricked her skin. Jack hated eye contact, never understood what it was so damn important to humans, asari, turians, krogan, and salarian. At least hanar didn't have faces. "I really don't get why you are all so damn attached to this ship... Many of you only _started_ to work together. It's been what, a month on the Sol calendar? Why the Normandy?"

Dr. Chakwaas rolled her shoulders, shrugging before relaxing back into the chair. She collected her tea, removing the satchel from the porcelain's steaming mouth. Sipping the herbs, Chakwas cleared her throat with a hot mouthful of fragrant water before speaking. "I can't answer for the rest of the staff, but I can speak for myself."

The doctor gathered her drink between her hands, latex gloved fingers pressed around the large, white mug that read, 'I prescribe caffeine' in bold letters with a green heart monitor decorating the background. She looked down into her tea as she thought, before politely lifting her eyes to meet Jack's aggressive stare. "This is my family. We may not always get along, but we strive to stay together. No matter what. If you aren't safe onboard the Normandy, than you are safe nowhere else. It is our duty to protect and love her. She is so many things to so many people, above all she is home."

Jack raised her brow, chewing flavorless gum and rudely snapping it between her fingers. It was always the same answer, from everyone who wanted the Normandy's name inked somewhere on their bodies. The Normandy was home.

Never having a home herself, Jack found the concept bewildering. The crew was a strange hodgepodge of crazy ass aliens, vigilantes, criminals, Cerberus loyalists, and ex-alliance soldiers. It was the kind of crew that _shouldn't_ get along. And often, they didn't. More than once, Jack would walk by a nasty fist fight between a former criminal and a vigilante. Rumor spread that Shepard had stopped Tali from shooting Legion in the circuit board (or brain.. or wherever the main hub of 'smarts' that stored the geth's memory), though not before charmingly inviting Legion to the quarian floatillla.

Jack was there when Shepard escorted the geth past the disinfection zone. She was almost certain the quarians were about to string Shepard's crew using Legion's metal-coated tubes.

_'They aren't going to do shit,'_ Shepard half-heartedly stressed to an irate Tali. _'Like it or not, your fucking floatilla requires my help to support a potential alliance between humans and quarians, for floatilla interests of course.'_

_'Perhaps the admiralty board has completely forgotten that you work for _Cerberus_, Shepard,'_ Tali hissed back sarcastically.

_'Do I, Tali? Do I really?'_

_'I don't know, Shepard...'_

And the commander would wink behind her breathing helmet before threatening to take off her suit, spread germs across the Admiralty ship by pleasantly cart wheeling across the floors if said quarians did not allow Legion past the security check point.

It was fucking hilarious.

The crew had their differences... Jack could barely walk by Miranda's office before spitting at the door. There were too many Cerberus fan boys on the fucking boat for her to feel any sense of love or loyalty to the Normandy. She didn't understand why so many strangers were so loyal to the hunk of metal and drama. "You still think the Normandy is safe? Even after the collectors tore this ship apart years ago?"

Chakwas narrowed her eyes, before sipping her tea, the aroma of bitter leaves intermingling with the smell of antiseptic. "Of course I do. She has changed... I've been with her since the day she launched. I know her pulse, her heart, how she moves... I may not know her as well as Jeff... But I know a side of her few have seen. Ever since her resurrection, she's turned into something entirely new."

Jack narrowed her eyes, "Are you talking about the Normandy or are you talking about Commander Shepard?"

Doctor Chakwas's tea fell from her hands. Blue light shimmered around the tattoo artist as she flicked her right hand up, hot tea and mug floating inches from the ground. Dark energy warped the space around her, enclosing Jack's body in translucent ultramarine as she turned her wrist, biotically setting the mug on the nearby table and pouring tea back into the porcelain bowl.

The woman blinked and sighed, relieved. "Thank you, Jack." She settled back into her chair, blue eyes fixed on the tiled ground. Jack snapped her gum, crossed her arms, and leaned nonchalantly against the wall.

"Listen, Doc. I know you want this tattoo, but I have a price. I don't accept money or favors," Jack clarified.

The medical specialist nodded, "Yes. Kasumi told me you would be willing to accept information in exchange for a tattoo..."

"Not just information. I want information about Commander Shepard."

Chakwas blinked, grey lashes narrowed, brows knit as she considered the asking price. "What do you know so far?" She inquired.

Jack shrugged, "Why should I tell you what I know? Maybe I know a lot. Maybe I know nothing. Who cares? Just answer the question."

The doctor frowned. "Why do you want to know?"

"Why do you care?" Jack asked suspiciously. "Point is you want ink and I want information. So start talking. Why are you talking about the damn captain like she's the ship."

Chakwas sighed, learning forward with elbows braced across her knees, interlocking her hands and resting a delicate chin across the weave of fingers. "Perhaps it is because Shepard _is _the Normandy. Or perhaps the Normandy is Shepard. Their fates intertwine. It is as if she chose this ship. Or perhaps the ship chose her. They are the same."

The doctor stood, briefly turning around the room as she sniffed. "I remember when that girl first came onboard the SR1. At the time, bad media had a nasty habit of trailing behind her. While I know nothing of her history before the Alliance, what I do know is that Admiral David Anderson, the Normandy's former captain, groomed her to command this ship. Even before her reputation as the Bloody Shepherdess, both Admiral Anderson and Admiral Hackett paid close attention to Foucault's rise."

Jack raised a thin brow, tapping the golden amplifier that decorated the rim of her right ear. The chain of command often went over Jack's head, and she usually had difficulty following standard combat orders. But from what Jack picked up with a bit of reading and a few questions, she knew that alliance admirals were the kings of human space defense. So why were two of the highest ranking human soldiers so invested in Shepard?

Why the hell did they groom her to fly the most sophisticated ship in the galaxy?

"When did she become commander?"

"Only a year after serving as Admiral Anderson's XO. It shocked the Alliance. Many of our more conservative admirals vehemently protested the idea." Dr. Chakwas licked her lips. "You see, Shepard is very anti-political. Many believe the collectors was just a conspiracy spun by Alliance admirals out to kill her."

"That's stupid," Jack muttered. "Why would they destroy the Normandy just to get to her? Isn't it one of the greatest stealth ships ever made?"

"Precisely," Chakwas ran her fingers through her hair, unknotting silver threads. "That and... I was there when the collectors attacked the Normandy."

The biotic swallowed, sliding her oak brown eyes to match the doctor's platinum blue gaze. Chakwas returned her stare politely, nodding in acknowledgement. "You've seen the collector ship, I imagine..."

"I was onboard it," Jack answered, grinding her teeth at the memory... the smell of decay and mechanical lubricant. The exterior looked like hell, and the interior was ten times more frightening. Tiles moving, grotesque machine-organic hybrid creatures giving chase across the halls. The whole experience was disorienting, and not entirely enjoyable. Jack liked killing when personal victory was certain. The collectors very nearly killed her.

The doctor nodded, "Indeed. I was there when it came out of no where... we confused it for an asteroid at first, then a geth ship. Before we could shake it off our tail, the collector's main weapon split the Normandy in two. Shepard managed to save most of the crew through an emergency evacuation... She promised me she would save Jeff Moreau. And told me to, I quote, 'haul ass.'" Chakwas closed her eyes. "The pod's doors closed, and I watched my home burn into a planet."

Jack blinked, pursing her lips. "So... Shepard and Jeff died?"

"What...? Oh, no..." The woman shook her head, neatly manicured hair sweeping in different directions around her head. "Jeff survived. Shepard died saving his life."

That... made no sense. Jack stared at Chakwas, brows knit as she evaluated the doctor's words. What she was saying made no fucking sense. "What the fuck are you talking about? Shepard would never sacrifice her life for another person. She's too fucking self worthy."

The doctor only shrugged. "I like to imagine that it is because she does not break her promises..."

"You and I both know that's bullshit," Jack snapped back, spitting out her gum into the nearby garbage dispenser. She missed, and the sticky substance snapped against the wall framed by a halo of saliva. "Shepard does what Shepard wants. She doesn't give a fuck about you or me. She's all about the fucking mission. And her mission was to save the galaxy, not get killed by reaper lackies just to save some nobody named Jeff Moreau."

Chakwas sighed, "I can't answer that, unfortunately. As I said before, the Normandy changed after its resurrection. Perhaps Shepard has also changed. I imagine death is a great shock to the system. You learn to make decisions with greater haste and risk after realizing the expendibility of your own life..."

Jack accepted the doctor's answer. Jack was well versed in death, the patterns, the sequence, the nearly-dying herself. And she couldn't very well discredit a doctor's explanation - Chakwas's profession demanded a very unbiased and medical understanding of death to keep her coworkers alive. The tattooist sniffed, picking the gum off the wall between her fingernails and popping it into the trash bin. "You didn't see her die? Did Jeff Moreau see her die?"

"Yes... Yes he did..." Chakwas bit her lip. "He was a witness to Shepard and the Normandy's demise."

"... Where can I find this Moreau dude?" Jack asked, narrowing her eyes.

The doctor blinked, surprise melting into amusement as a smile tugged across her lips, "Most of the crew prefer to call him by his nickname. Joker."

It was Jack's turn to drop her jaw.

* * *

><p>"It's beautiful, Jack," Kasumi hushed, gazing at the live feed of her illustrated back on her omnitool. She had managed to hack EDI's cameras, with the proper agreement that she would not breach security and only spy in public areas. For entertainment purposes only. Kasumi sighed, bracing a towel over her front torso as she admired the yellow sunflowers blooming and dying across her back.<p>

Goto was more than happy to divulge the beautiful and heartbreaking romance of Keiji Okuda. His wit, his mischief, the near death trouble making they caused during various heists. 'We never hurt anyone... they all tried to hurt us, however.' And as Kasumi talked, Jack listened - spelling the whimsy, pleasure, sadness, and longing Kasumi conveyed in her story telling with large, ripe sunflowers.

She did some research earlier, looking up that Van Gogh dude Kasumi would not stop comparing her to. In time, Jack had found a kindred spirit reaching across history. _I know you._ Jack would think, scrolling though translations of Van Gogh's letters and the increasing instability of his life. _I know you are lonely. But... I know you and I love you._

Van Gogh knew exactly how to paint beauty. It was a language foreign to the pampered and protected. No one can truly understand beauty unless they've seen true ugliness. It was a language Jack could speak fluently.

And so she adopted Van Gogh's sunflowers and repainted them with her own strokes across Kasumi's back.

Flat, glass like, growing, budding, blooming, dying in the sun. A sun that would one day die as well, long after the flowers have gone extinct. Still, each would leave their mark on the universe. Time cannot deny their existence, having existed.

"Sign and date it, Jack." Kasumi stated, smiling. "Please."

Jack nodded. "You kept your end of the bargain. I'll keep mine."

And she signed it. Not using roman letters, but preferring asari. Jack's artistic name was Delpherra, though she chose it less for how it sounded and more because the geometrical, thick, round shapes created a lovely pattern. She carefully dated it before wrapping Kasumi's back with a solution of medigel and bandages, sealing the colorful, open wounds so the ink could heal properly. "Leave that on for a day. And be sure to apply medigel five times a day for a sol week, _after_ cleaning it with soap and water. Don't follow instructions and that tattoo is fucked."

Kasumi smiled, flicking two fingers and sweeping both across her forehead, one almond eye winking mischievously. Gathering her suit neatly folded across a chair, the thief stepped inside the cloaked outfit, tight breathing fabric clinging to her lithe body and revealing the outline of her bandages. She buckled the various utility straps with practiced fingers, amber eyes peeking around the warm underbelly of Jack's room. Unhooded, Kasumi wasn't ugly nor was she beautiful. The woman was surprisingly plain-looking, flat nose centered above painted lips, hair cropped short near her ears. Gloved hands drew the thick cloak over her head, eyes reflecting light as they studied Jack's room.

"You're painting..." The thief sighed. Jack responded with a sniff.

Delicately Kasumi collected a drying varren-bristled brush from Jack's desk, framing her fingers around several news paper clippings and printouts taped across the pipes and reinforced steel walls. Matisse, Van Gogh, Michaelangelo, Artemis Gentileschi, Kehinde Wiley, and other poor reproductions covered her room like a thick blanket. Sunflowers, starry nights, women floating through space, women working together, men entranced by men... Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty... Kasumi braced her hand across her chest, "What are you researching...? What are you painting...?"

Jack shrugged. "A woman who died."

The thief studied the thumbnails, hushing as she regarded the guache tubes of paint, hurried illustrations brokered by pen breaking human features across the various media. Kasumi narrowed her eyes, mixed awe and caution plastered across an obscured face. She opened her mouth, but before the words could lift her tongue, the slow, awkward, limping sound of a medium statured human tread down the stairs, adding to Jack's company.

The ex-convict narrowed her eyes, collecting a rag soaked in rubbing alcohol, wiping off specks of blood and colored ink from stained fingers. A hunched figure stepped into the light, breathing uncomfortably as he regarded Jack and Kasumi separately, teeth grit and blue eyes peeking under the bill of his cap. "Hey... uh... Yeah. Nice place you got here, Jack... errr..."

"Joker," Jack started, throwing the smeared towel into a nearby hamper. "What the hell are you doing _here_?"

"Well, y'know. Just checking in with my number one favorite secret hidey hole under the engineering bridge," He shuffled a foot, toe tapping ground awkwardly. "Yep. Making sure my space hamster didn't escape down here in the ducts... you wouldn't have happened to see Zippy down here, would you?"

Jack only stared blankly. Kasumi sighed, hiding her face under one hand as she shook her head back and forth, "I told Joker about your tattoo parlor."

"My tattoo _what_?"

The thief shrugged, smiling mysteriously before winking, finger tapping the corner of her eye. "It's no secret. You forget people love to share their tattoos."

"_Why_ did you tell _him?_" Jack snapped, pointing at Joker in fierce accusation. "If I throw an apple at this guy, he could _break._"

The pilot blinked, waving his hands in front of him, "Hey there, hey. While a food fight could potentially wound and kill me, I'm sure there's a way around the whole... tattoo-gun-might-shatter-my-bones problem..."_  
><em>

Kasumi ignored the crippled man, a sly grin fixed on those immaculate lips, "I want to help with your research... for your painting of the woman who died, of course."

Jack stared. "Wait... what... what the _fuck _do you mean? How is this crippled asshole going to help me?"

"Uhm... Hello? I'm still right here...?" Joker groaned. "Y'know... the guy who has to safely get you to the collector base for your suicide mission and... stuff..."

"Say, Jeff..." Kasumi whistled thoughtfully, her voice pitching into a dangerously friendly lilt. "What kind of tattoo are you looking for?"

Joker blinked, exchanging an awkward shrug with Jack before responding, "Well... I was thinking of Zippy my space hamster."

Kasumi's brow perked.

Joker sighed, raising his hands, "Alright, alright. I was just wondering if you had time to tattoo the first and second generation Normandy across my left and right arm. I have drawings of the original model..." The pilot sniffed, pulling out a crumpled napkin that featuring the juvenile ink blots that suggested a stick-man representation of a ship, complete with a stick figure of Joker flexing his giant oval-shaped guns. "... Eh... I mean, we could find photographs on the codex I imagine.."

The woman nodded. "Interesting... better than the Normandy's name across your heart..."

Jack's gaze snapped from pilot to thief, thick black lashes narrowed suspiciously around deep mahogany eyes. Kasumi must've spied on her and Chakwas. She hadn't even started tattooing the doctor yet. The Japanese bitch eavesdropped on them. Subject zero growled, waving Goto away as she cleaned her quarters, collecting used needles and dried ink, tossing them into a bucket filled with disinfected water, "Alright, fine. Next client in... You. Thief." Jack pointed a finger in Kasumi's direction, the other hand occupied with tubes and rubber bands that littered her desk. "Three's a crowd. Now get _out_."

The woman shrugged, rolling her arms and gingerly climbing up the stairs, into the greater engineering hall. "Don't fucking spy on me again..." Jack snarled.

Kasumi said nothing, implying she A) didn't hear Jack or B) chose not to hear her.

Joker twisted his mouth into an awkward expression, one brow lifted as the other furled quizzically. Both eyes slid left then right, following the departing company as she ascended the stairs, then back to Jack who wiped down the surface of her bed and table space with a clean rag and spray bottle. The artist sighed, glancing back at Joker as she returned to sweeping the space with detergent and a thin coat of wrapping plastic that clung to the surfaces like sticky tape. "Don't you have like... fragile bone disease or some shit?"

The pilot grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck before awkwardly stumbling across the floor, teeth grit painfully and jaw vein twitching as he gingerly took one careful step in front of the other. He braced a nearby chair, carefully steadying his body into the seat. He finally relaxed back into the portable furniture, sighing relief as he allowed his weight to shift from the fragile support of his skeleton to the chair. "I wouldn't recommend using your tattoo gun, if that's what you're saying. The vibrations will likely break _both_ my arms. And I need my arms. You know... to keep the AI overlord from taking over this ship and possibly all galactic life as we know it."

"I am still here, Jeff," EDI's monotonous synth buzzed through the speakers decorating the archways.

Jack rolled her eyes. Privacy was too much to ask onboard a prized slab of metal branded with Cerberus's logo. She sniffed, brown eyes studying Joker's lanky, pale arms. She tapped her chin. "There are alternative means to tattoo the human body. I actually picked up some turian paints on the Citadel last shore leave. Expensive as hell... but the security was bullshit and they were easy to steal. Not as permanent as a gun, but it'll last for at least a year on human skin."

Joker frowned as he considered this option, scratching a stubbly chin. "Is that what Foucault's using on her face?"

She shrugged. Jack wasn't entirely sure _how_ Shepard convinced Garrus to throw a bunch of turian paint on her face. The details were a mystery to her. But she did recognize the paint, "Yeah."

The biotic pulled out a drawer, revealing a large collection of small, ebony jars packed tightly into storage. Some of them remained unsealed, the others unbroken. She picked up that varren-bristled brush Kasumi had fidgeted with earlier, collecting assorted colors - giving each jar a good, strong shake before placing them atop a tray. "So I hear you were the last one out of the first Normandy, before it turned into scrap metal," Jack started.

He tensed, blue eyes briefly studying Jack before hiding under the lip of his cap. "Yeah... So what?"

Jack sniffed, placing the spectrum of chromatic colors on the bed. The convict flipped out an extra folding chair she had purchased on Omega, beaten up and rusted, but still useful - covered in childish stickers and permanent marker ink. She paid extra just to see the duct rat's gap toothed grin. She licked the bristles of her brush, measuring its length with her tongue, the taste of soap and water fresh against varren hair. "Listen, _Jeff Moreau_. This is how it's gonna work. I'm going to paint a pair of semi-permanent ships across your arms. In exchange, you are going to answer questions. Let me be very, very clear here. You won't be asking any questions - the honor is mine. Information is my only acceptable form of payment. Otherwise, I suggest you drag your crippled ass up those stairs and into the elevator out of here."

The man tensed under Jack's scrutinizing glare, weight shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He winced, removing his cap and fanning it over his face, "... Man... It sure got hot in here all the sudde-... Wait... Who told you my full nam-... Chakwas." Joker rolled his eyes and slapped his hat down on the side of the chair, carefully avoiding his knee. "What... wait... Why do you _care_ what my name is?"

"You're already breaking the first clause of the agreement, Jeff," Jack muttered around the paint brush, handle bit between her teeth as she unscrewed one of the onyx turian paint jars. "I ask questions, I get answers, and you get ink. Capiche?"

Joker's face twisted uncertainly, nose turning with the question of his mouth, blue eyes sliding back and to the left as he thought long and har- "Sure, I'll bite."

"Wait, what?" Jack blinked, surprised at Joker's quick agreement.

"Not like I have any secrets to hide," the pilot shrugged. "You aren't the first person to ask about my record, you know. Between Vrolik's Syndrome, Saren's attack on the Citadel, and fighting off massive galactic eating monsters... I'm used to background checks. I'm convinced the Alliance and Cerberus has my biography memorized at this point."

Well then... the biotic nodded, slapping on a pair of latex gloves before motioning Joker to take off his shirt.

"... I'd rather roll up my sleeves, if that's alright with you..." he protested, pushing back the shirt leaves and revealing the full length of his arms. Jack shrugged, collecting a razor from the tray and applying a mixture of water and conditioner, white foam spreading across Joker's arms.

"I need to shave the hair off," Jack explained, stretching Joker's arm across her lap. The blade shimmered as she swept the sharp razor against the grain of Joker's body hair, collecting foam, dirt, and follicles with an expert sweep. Hair always got in the way of ink. Always distorted the image some how.

Joker's skin was pale and dappled with freckles under the wiry layer of body hair. Jack leaned back, sliding on a pair of special goggles Donnelly had constructed for her. The engineer was pleased as punch with his tattoo, though had little interesting information about Shepard that he could offer. His knowledge was common and his relationship with her unspecial - One time the commander had tricked both him and Gabby at a game of poker, bluffed them blind. 'She didn't even look at her cards... she was _literally_ playing us,' he'd regale. Jack was already familiar with this side of Shepard, and demanded better compensation. Donnelly invented a wonderful device for Jack's use. He designed a visor specific to artists, a cheap device that could connect to an omnitool and draw up reference pictures that would then 'impose' themselves over someone's body. If Jack wanted, she could sketch the image prior, upload it into the visor, and proceed to trace the tattoo across a person's skin.

But Jack being Jack preferred free handing all of her work, and chose to use the visor strictly for referencing images as she worked.

The artist typed in the Normandy's name into a record bank. Very few images of the SR2 model sprouted across the extranet, though a bulwark of the Alliance's original prototype popped up across Jack's visual workspace. Pushing the images aside with pupil-motion controlled actions, Jack dipped the tip of the brush into white-silver ink, and gingerly dabbed excess ink across the jar's mouth. Jack used her left hand to stroke right-to-left, from the top of Joker's forearm down to his wrist. She leaned down and blew cold air across the white design, holding the wet brush by the handle with her teeth and dipping another brush into the jar of black.

It was only then Jack realized the Normandy SR1's color scheme looked so damn familiar.

"Why is Shepard's armor the same color as this ship's?" the artist asked, biting the brush's oak handle on the other side of her mouth as she spoke between grit teeth.

The corner of the pilot's mouth turned as both brows raised. Joker was shrugging with his face. "Maybe she's just the Normandy's biggest fan?"

Jack narrowed her eyes, outlining white with black ink in long, perfect strokes. "... Bullshit..." She muttered. The other hand collected the brush from her mouth. The left hand painted in ebony, the right in ivory. Both hands were identical twins, skilled and dancing across Joker's skin.

"... Woah... Kasumi wasn't kidding when she said you were... talented..."

Ignoring Joker's compliment, Jack blew air on the drying ink, underlining the Normandy's lettering with a clothes pin dipped in red ink. She stabbed Joker once.

"What the fu-"

"Tattoo ain't a tattoo unless it has pain, dipshit," She grumbled, standing up to admire the first ship illustrated across Joker's arm. The pin only pricked a shallow part of Joker's skin. He wasn't bleeding, just surprised.

"Yeah well... warn me next time you decide to stab my arm..." Joker protested, blue eyes fixed on the details. He whistled appreciatively... Jack worked quickly and efficiently.

"Damn... You really captured her likeness... I- Hey... Hey what are you doing...?"

The ex-convict had stepped off her chair and was packing paints away, collecting brushes and tossing them nonchalantly in a dirty bucket, "Why the fuck would I want to tattoo a Cerberus ship to your other arm?"

"Uh... Because I _asked_ you too? Really nicely?" Joker stated in his best convincing voice... which wasn't so much convincing as it was dry and irritated.

Jack frowned before putting another set of inks back down near the table and producing a small needle from her utility pouch. One brow perked, "It's not tattoo unless it hurts, you big fucking baby. I'm willing to make your first ship all semi-permanent and crap, but if you really want to have a Cerberus ship inked into your skin, than it better be fucking permanent. Can't use a gun, but I can sure as hell do it the way the ancients did. With my fingers and a fucking needle."

Joker grimaced, "... How long will that take...?"

"About five hours."

The pilot sighed, deliberating on the spot. He grit his teeth, rolled his eyes, and relaxed awkwardly into the chair, "Fine. Fuck it. I want it. Let's get this done..."

Jack blinked, "Why the fuck would you want to get something tattooed so fucking badly you are willing to stay still for five hours of excruciating pain? Are you really that much of a Cerberus lackey?"

"I'm not a goddamn Cerberus lackey," Joker snapped, finger jutting between Jack's eyes as he leaned forward in his chair. The quick motion was visibly painful, teeth gritting and jaw tense as he held position. "I already lost the Normandy once, I will not lose her again. Now give me my damn tattoo."

She stopped, lips pursed and eyes fixed on Joker's intense stare. Neither moved for several seconds. Slowly, Jack stepped around - holding a bottle of black and a bottle of white ink in one hand, thumb and fingers supporting the paint across a cupped palm. She curled one foot around the leg of her chair, swinging it around in a sweep to meet Joker's right side. Jack dipped the point of the needle into the white ink and pricked Joker's skin. He grit his teeth and hissed, but soon arm muscles relaxed against the penetration. "Chakwas said you were there when she died."

"Yeah," Joker muttered. "I tried to save her... but it was too late..."

"I heard that she was the one who saved you."

The pilot turned his head, blue eyes trained on Jack's deep brown gaze, peeking under the transparent glass of her visor. "This is about Foucault, huh?"

"Why did she die for you," Jack asked, listening to the air whistle through Joker's teeth as she continued the shallow stabs of needle across skin. "... I mean. I get it. I get why people do what she wants. I get why Cerberus brought her back. She's this fucking mutant human-machine who might actually be capable of uniting an entire galaxy of disconnected, warring aliens to fight against planet eating cthulus who may or may not exist. What I don't get is why she sacrificed herself to keep you alive. You can't do _shit_. There's even an AI that can replace you."

Joker narrowed his eyes bitterly, sneering at Jack before his features dissolved into a conflict of emotions. Jack wasn't sure if she was supposed to read anger or regret. "... Honestly? I don't know..." The pilot shook his head. "I should've gone down with the ship. I wanted to. I knew I couldn't save her. The Normandy was... is... The Normandy's my purpose. You destroy that, you destroy me. But I forgot the Normandy doesn't belong to me. Sure, it's my purpose, but it isn't my property..."

The pilot swallowed, shaking his head, "The Normandy belongs to Shepard. And if Shepard doesn't want you on the Normandy, you best get off the Normandy. She ordered me to leave and I refused... I refused Shepard's orders... _No one refuses Shepard's orders_. Then, just like that, she drags me out of a seat, throws me into an escape pod... I don't know why she saved me. Maybe she really can't stand insubordination... I really don't know. I didn't deserve to live."

He sighed, tongue slack against mouth. Jack brushed excess blood, touching each outline prick by prick, illustrating the SR2 as an inverted double of its sister across Joker's arm. She was the balance, the shadow... changed and altered. But permanent, where the SR1 would fade in time. Joker continued, pained. "I maybe crippled, but I have excellent vision. 15/15, one of the reasons why the Alliance overlooked my medical records. Reason I'm the best damn pilot you will ever meet. What genetics blessed me with turned into a curse. From the escape pod, I watched the Normandy break and fall. I watched the bodies of my friends drift in space. I watched Shepard struggle as her oxygen cut out and she burned into a planet's atmosphere... so when Cerberus called me two years later and told me about Project Lazarus, I made a promise to myself."

Jack leaned back, watching Joker speculatively. The pilot adjusted himself, gazing at the artist sidelong, eyes boring into hers. "My insubordination left her to die once. That will never happen again."

"Is it because you love her?" Jack asked suddenly.

Joker sighed, "I love the Normandy, Jack. But the Normandy belongs to Shepard. I'm only renting space. I'm not a Cerberus lackey... The Normandy belongs to Shepard, and I belong to the Normandy."

The woman nearly dropped her needle. She finally understood. It finally clicked. Her lips turned round and she stared at Joker for several beats. Joker said nothing, hissing only occasionally and snapping his teeth shut as the pain consumed his arm with pricks. The convict took her time and meditated on the ship's outline as she painted.

Come to think of it, Jack also belonged to the Normandy. Having never had a home, Jack did not recognize security and comfort until Joker's empathetic answer. The biotic didn't know what to think... didn't realize how she was planning a future for herself, assuming she was going to survive the suicide mission. She could have hauled ass long ago, but she didn't want to, because leaving the ship meant leaving home.

She finally had a purpose beyond shooting and killing. Jack was an artist with a long list of clients who admired and appreciated her work, despite the bullshit she put them through. Each stranger or co-worker gladly answered the most private questions because Jack's talent was worth the exchange. Jack's worth depended on what she created, not on artificial biotic abilities. No. Jack was inherently talented, the Normandy proved as much.

By the time she finished Joker's tattoo, most of the Normandy's crew had returned from a lengthy shore leave on Illium. Engineers streamed across the bridge and several cargo trucks unloaded supplies in the deck under Jack's feet. Joker thanked Jack for the tattoos and left her to clean the solitary studio in silence, climbing up the stairs and into the elevator - committing himself to a rambling argument with EDI about when the Normandy should leave the docking station. She listened to the mechanical lift drift up, and continued to wipe down her room with a thin layer of spray and a wet towel.

"Why are you so interested in me?"

Jack rolled her eyes, ignoring the cold voice behind her. She was wondering when Shepard would show up, peeking around the corner or hacking into the security system. Kasumi maybe a class A thief, but Shepard was an infiltration master. Kasumi spied for entertainment purposes. Shepard never spied. She watched. Her ship was public domain, everyone was aware of Shepard's rule - except, perhaps, the Illusive Man or Miranda. But nothing is ever certain with Cerberus intel.

"Because I want to know why so many people are so fucking in love with you," Jack snapped. "And how much they really know about you."

The artist spun on one heel, slamming the drawer with a _clank_ as the sound of glass brokered tension. She measured Shepard, who stood a smooth distance away - gauntleted arms crossed under her breast-plate, grey gaze flashing under the visor that framed her right eye. The illuminated sniper lens eclipsed the right side of Shepard's face, harsh shadows outlining a high cheekbone, strong jaw, sharp nose, and thick lips. If the commander wasn't so damn frightening, she'd almost be conventionally attractive for a hardened soldier.

"Inspiring loyalty is different from love, _Jack," _Shepard emphasized, eyes narrowed into a deep, unsettling stare. "What are you doing? What the fuck do you think you are doing, exactly?"

The commander stepped into the woman's space, kicking the bucket of stained brushes and towels - contents spilling across the ground. She tore off a printout of Starry Night from the wall, studying the swirl of Van Gogh's replicated oils. "... Look at you... if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were building a future for yourself."

Jack snarled, "So? I'm not allowed to do that?"

"Assuming you will even survive the suicide mission. You do remember we are on a suicide mission, right?"

Shepard tore the image to pieces, throwing the shredded paper in Jack's face. "You think I'll save you, Jack? That during this mission, I'll risk it all to save yours? There are too many lives at risk for me to give a shit about yours. Do not concern yourself with my life. Stop wasting your energy and start thinking about what you want to accomplish before you DIE, because there's a big ass chance that you will fucking die."

The artist felt empty... as if Shepard hollowed out her heart and soul with a spoon, exposing her remains to varren and maggots. The anger left a bitter taste in her mouth. "I know who you are..."

"Like fuck you do," The commander snapped.

"... I know who you were before the Normandy."

Shepard turned silent, lips narrowed and eyes flickering uncertainly. Her jaw tensed, and a strange smile crawled across Jack's painted lips. "Lady Noh."

And then... The commander laughed.

She laughed hard and long, the sound chilling and cruel. Jack blinked, confused at Shepard's strange turn, uncertainly sitting down on her cot as she stared bewildered at Shepard's strange interruption. She continued laughing until the tears streamed and she couldn't breath, doubled over until the laughter fell into sweeps of chuckling and she could catch her breath.

"Spirits Christ..." Shepard snorted, face flushed red, one finger flicking away a tear. "Listen, Jack. If you think you have information that might fuck me over, let me clarify something with you. You don't. You really, really don't."

Jack blinked. "But... there are no records of you before the Alliance... Except for Lady Noh."

"Lady Noh is dead," Shepard corrected sharply. "She died two years ago onboard the Normandy SR1, when the Collectors fucked that ship over. She's dead, Jack. The past is dead." The commander sighed, shaking her head. "I made a mistake. My mistake was that I let myself die... I'm not about to make that same mistake twice."

That answer chilled Jack to the bone. Brown eyes stared, wide-eyed at Shepard as she realized the weight of her meaning. It was a threat. Get in Shepard's way, and she will not hesitate to kill you. Lady Noh would stay a secret. If Shepard sensed it would endanger the mission, it wasn't beyond her to kill Jack or anyone else privy to her history.

"Kasumi told you, didn't she?" Shepard shook her head, "It doesn't matter. You both will probably be dead in a week. People who are too concerned with the business of others typically don't live very long... Let it go, Jack. It's not worth it.

The artist nodded... then narrowed her eyes. Jack was not about to give in so easily. Jack was not about to allow the woman such an easy victory. Jack's stubborn personality and flair for danger helped her drive for revealing secrets. And Shepard was a giant chest of secrets.

Jack pulled out that stupid, beaten up cobalt blue tin box and placed it in Shepard's hands as she glared directly into the shorter woman's eyes. "I want a tattoo," the ex-convict stated. "I want a tattoo of the Normandy SR2 across my neck."

Shepard narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "... No."

"What the _fuck_ do you mean 'no'?" Jack snapped.

"My ship, my rules," Shepard continued. "But I'll make a deal with you..."

Deep black lashes framed Jack's deep brown eyes, brows furrowed aggressively, "What the fuck do you want..."

"I want you to blow up the Cerberus facility on Pragia."

Jack paled. Shepard smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note ::<strong>

Write write write writing write write...

I'm still working on this! See ma? No hands.

This was more like Joker's AND Dr. Chakwas's story. But, y'know...

More info will come up about Lady Noh. That is another mystery that will be unravelled in time.

Now let's get off this damn ship and go to Pragia.

Next Chapter: She Who Must Be Admired... Miranda's Story.

:)


	11. Agnus Dei

**PATCHWORK GIRL  
><strong>

**AGNUS DEI  
>Jack's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

* * *

><p>Rain pounded her head. A deep rhythmic rumbling that tapped against her ear drum in a steady, level staccato. Flump thrump thrump thrump... The rain hit fanned leaves, tapping that deep green leather before sliding down a spiny vein five stories below. Flump thrump thrump thrump. Jack knew that sound, though never so clear. It was always muffled, in her memories and in her nightmares.<p>

_Little has changed since the escape._

Jack stepped across the hard, milky white tiles. Thick leather boots pounded across the decayed floor. It looked so, so familiar... but also very, very different. The rough outlines of her past created the skeleton of the present. Sure, the factory was familiar to Jack, but her memories had to fill in the gaps created by neglect and age.

Plants peeked through the cracks in the floor's tiling, fresh green poking past the dirt. Time ignored the artificiality of the present. It grew and changed this ugly place. One day Cerberus would die. One day Jack would die. One day Pragia would dry up, unable to sustain its own mutant plantation. And, perhaps, one day a neighboring planet in the system would bloom with life, thanks to seeds and pollen drifting in space millions of years between Pragia and it.

Perhaps, one day, the Reapers will swallow them all in this cycle, allowing Pragia's neighbor to grow and defend itself against the next invasion billions of years from now.

"... It smells like rotting meat..."

And maybe, just maybe, the cheerleader would shut her fucking trap before Jack buried her fist deep between her molars.

Jack barely slept the night before, tossing and turning, gnawing on her lower lip before blurring her senses in flashes between bottles of Ryncol. Expensive drinks were one of many shitty side effects produced by Cerberus's biotic experiments. It took a lot to medically fuck with Jack's mental state. Drell intoxicants, hanar hallucinogens, even krogan 'mercy' drinks barely knocked her out longer than half an hour. Wonderful thing to deal with, really. Constant sobriety. So there Jack was, drowning in bottle after bottle of Ryncol, passing out between moments of self-medication in a cold sweat.

Pragia. Pragia. Pragia.

She repeated it between bottles, until the word tricked her brain. Pragia, Pragia, Pragia. She'd say it, her tongue sounding out each word, the tip of it still between her teeth as the word flattened the back of her mouth. Pra. Her lips pulled back, and she hissed between her teeth. Gi. Mouth rounded as the last air expelled from between her lungs. A. Pra. Gi. A. Pra. Gi. A. Pra. Gi. A. Pra. Gi. A.

The night was woven with Jack's slurred whispers.

After a quick fitness test (Jack completed 187 pull ups, 212 push ups, and passed out briefly before speeding through 115 burpees), the woman took a scalding shower that pricked her skin red. She shaved, sharp razor cutting back the hair that emerged across the surface of her scalp. She preferred shaving to washing her hair. Some people shined their armor or cleaned their guns before war - Jack found shelter in shaving. It was methodical and simple, predictable preparation. Call it comforting.

Less comforting when she regarded her reflection one last time, only to find Shepard's flashing grey eyes staring from behind.

_I hate you._ Jack wanted to say. _I fucking hate you. I hate you so much._

"Make up your mind yet?" Shepard inquired, arms crossed.

_Why the fuck are you asking me that? You know the answer, you fucking bitch. You know it. You fucking know it._

Jack stuck a toothbrush between her lips and proceeded to lather her teeth with fluoride, glaring at Shepard's bored reflection.

The commander nodded, "Wonderful."

_You knew I would say yes. So why are you here? Why the fuck are you here? Why are you fucking here...?_

Shepard stepped away, grey gaze boring across Jack's face, studying, reading, observing, fucking predicting her every action. Shepard wasn't just a feline stalking her prey... she was a whole fucking pride of lions circling around a sick gazelle. Jack felt outnumbered, exploited, and overpowered.

"When you are ready to take off, report to Miranda Lawson."

"No thanks," Jack spat. "I'll just show up at the bridge and tell you when I'm ready." _I know where you fucking sleep, you bitch._

Shepard smiled.

_The fuck... The fuck, why is she smiling...? What the fuck am I missing...?! What the hell did I miss...?!_

"You misunderstand," the woman corrected, shifting her weight to the other hip as she continued to regard Jack's reflection. "Miranda will be joining us."

Jack's fingers curled around the reinforced sink, teeth grinding and muscles twitching as the sharp edges peeled back the skin between her palms. She breathed evenly. Shepard wanted Jack to lose her temper. She wanted the woman to lose her cool. It showed the lion just how weak and easily manipulated the gazelle really was. "... Why." Jack managed between grit teeth. "Why are you doing this?"

Shepard stepped out of the communal bathroom instead of answering. Shepard walked away.

Bitch always walked away.

"... This stench is abysmal..." Miranda winced, holstering her handcanon.

"It's a fucking garden planet, princess. Of _course_ it smells like garbage," Jack groaned, choosing to insult Miranda's lack of insight and not shoving her knuckles through the woman's buckteeth. "Any other brilliant observations you'd like to bitch about, or can you shut the fuck up and let me process."

"Fine," Miranda replied. "Process and let's get out of here..."

The ex-convict rolled her eyes and snarled, concentrating on the rain beating down on exposed flesh as she studied her surroundings in disconnect.

Jack had never experienced religious ecstasy before. She always wanted to, always tried to explore the emotions of awe, piety, and crushing agape that missionaries fervently described. Jack tried, she really did. But no level of prayer, meditation, sacrifice or offering could budge her anchored cynicism. The woman's absolute apprehension of people and organizations helped her survive, kept her alive, kept her going. Jack was used to dismissing people. She was used to dismissing groups of people. She dismissed cities of people, planets of people, even whole nations of people. She tried religion. Lots of different religions. And she dismissed them all.

Jack could not dismiss Pragia. Jack could not ignore the abandoned facility. It was all there. In her mind, in her heart, in her thoughts, under her feet, in front of her eyes, all around her. It was there, all of it. The scar that shaped her into being Jack. Subject Zero. Jacqueline Nought. The convict. Number 24601. Delpherra.

Religious ecstasy was scary.

Her mind drew blanks. And soon there was only the sound of rain and her mind rattling off the same word over and over again.

_Fuck fuck fuck... Fuck fuck fuck..._

"You done taking your shower now that you're at mommy and daddy's place for Christmas?"

Jack shook off the spell, the voice in her head hushed by the storm's beating and Shepard's wry voice. The biotic sneered, tilting her head down and turning on one foot to shoot a loathing glare at Commander Bitch. Jack's hatred ballooned when she realized Shepard had cloaked herself, followed by the bloom of confusion.

"You realize that your optical camouflage doesn't work during typhoon season... Right...?" Jack pointed out, fingers outlining the air where invisible-Shepard was. Cloaking devices suck during storms. The rain bounced off the commander, tracing the contours of her body and armor, giving shape to air. Shepard was pretty damn visible, light bending the rain around her. She looked akin to an ice sculpture. A very lifelike ice sculpture.

"And you realize that we've been standing here for ten minutes, waiting for you to lead this fucking party?," The not-quite-invisible-Shepard snapped. "I'm getting BORED, Jack. I don't like being bored."

"_Bored_?" Miranda started, inquisitively tilting her head. "I just got through describing how we managed to resurrect you from being a charred pile of rock two years after you _died_._"_

"Yeah yeah yeah yeah..." Shepard's outline muttered, rolling her shoulders with a pop. "I get it, I get it. You finally got enough money to properly emulate immortality. I know, super cool, you did it Miranda." The 'invisible' hands raised, mock cheering. "Yaay. Now, instead of your name going down in the primary codex about how you were the pioneer of singularity, everyone will remember your boss. Because, you know, he provided the funds. And whatever you make here belongs to him. You know, it's funny how history does that. Turn around and give credit to the totally wrong guy who just _happened_ to have a fuck ton of money. I guess cash can buy you a place in the galaxy's permanent record of important shit..."

"...Excuse me...?"

"... Singularity..." Miranda swallowed.

"Uhm... Ex-cuuuse me?"

"... Yeah, Singularity. Finding the fountain of youth is just one short trip to merging with our tools. God knows I'm the poster child of synthesis. I have enough machines in me to make me... well... a machine, I guess," Shepard muttered.

Miranda rolled her eyes, "I thought we've been over this, Shepard. You are as much a machine as Tali is a geth. You aren't one. However, there were certain holes in your DNA code, and I had to fill in those gaps..."

"Ladies. Hellooo? Ex-cuuuuuse me!"

Shepard cocked a brow at Miranda, arms crossed under her breasts. "I'm 400 pounds, Miranda. That's a really big gap."

"And now you can knock your head into a krogan without cracking your head open," Lawson sighed, weaving her hand in the air. "I fail to see the problem Shepard."

"Ex-CUUUUSE _ME_ LADIES. THIS IS MY FUCKING MOMENT."

Badly Cloaked Shepard and the Cerberus Princess turned simultaneously to regard a heaving, teeth gritting, shoulder rounded Jack. The electricity bounced off her, black energy swirling through her, past her mind. Jack swallowed it back. She wasn't about to let these two fucktards ruin the stage.

Miranda predictably rolled her eyes, took a deep breath and fixed an icy stare on Jack, "Alright, then what are our instructions, Jack?"

"We go in. I will lead your asses, and you will listen to me bitch, moan, be angry and possibly tear a few things apart as we kick around in a Cerberus facility."

"_Abandoned_ facility," Miranda corrected. "This facility went rogue, the Illusive Man had nothing to do with that."

"See, and there's the punch line," Shepard mused, "Project Lazarus... He'll totally take credit for that in history. Project Zero, though? Just a rogue branch, unrelated, in it for themselves, was off studying biotic potential and fucked it all up. Money, man. Have enough of it, and you can just alter the way people see you for all eternity."

Miranda sighed, exasperated by the never-ending argument, "I... am just sayi-"

"I.. I... I... Am j-j-j-just saying what, Lawson?" Shepard mocked.

Brunette Barbie straightened, "Remember that if it weren't for the Illusive Man, you would be dead, and we would soon follow when the reapers arrive."

"Just drop the daddy issues already," the commander interrupted. "What the fuck is up with all my crew members and their goddamn father issues? You, Tali, Garrus, Jacob... fuck, even Liara back on the SR1 had 'father' problems. Stop defending Mr. Illusive. He's an asshole."

"The Illusive Man is not resp-"

"Lawson," Shepard snapped. "He. Is. An. Asshole. For fuck's sake... he doesn't see you as his fucking daughter. You're just the bitch who put me together. _I'm _supposed to be daddy's little girl. You were just the surrogate."

Miranda narrowed her eyes, "If it weren't for this surrogate, you'd still be a block of charred rock, Shepard."

"I know. That's why I don't understand why you are letting daddy dearest take all the future accolades. Either you are dumb or just really, really, really humble."

"Hey. Weirdo and cheerleader," Jack interrupted, waving her hand between the tense subjects. "How about we shut our traps, plant the bomb, and get the fuck off this planet?"

"Excellent idea," Shepard trotted, stepping into the building with a bit of a bounce to her step. She continued to wear the optical armor. It was more than a little weird.

Miranda, however, gated slowly behind, pushing back her soaked hair behind her ears, "For once, we agree."

Jack sighed, shaking her head and moving forward. "Fine... Let's just get this done with."

The team's structure was loose and undisciplined, reflecting the team leader's own conflicted state of mind and the chaotic storm that swept the neglected building. Glass, plaster, and roots crunched under Jack's boots, the sound satisfying in its unfamiliarity as she stepped over the threshold and into the facility. Subject Zero shivered in greeting. Her former prison groaned in welcome.

Jack unconsciously raised hand, pinching the long scars that slithered across her arm in a single sweep. Jack's first tattoos. The scars where they poisoned her with eezo. They cut her surgically, small scalpal drawing over her skin like butter. In hindsight, it was a strange dream. They numbed her flesh with painkillers and surface tranquilizers. The blade bit through her skin like butter, blood spilling and painting her pale skin a beautiful shade of red. The doctors explained to her that they were only drawing on her skin, doodling with a knife. Making her more beautiful.

And then they made her bathe in raw eezo.

Jack traced the scar with one black nail as she moved through the halls, eyes grazing empty cargo boxes across the transport bridge.

"... They used those to bring in the kids," She explained.

Miranda frowned, "Disgusting..."

"Yeah? Why dontcha talk to your employer about it? He's the one who handed them the money to buy kids with."

Princess rolled her eyes, "Are you daft or simply stupid? This facility went rogue. The Illusive Man is not responsible."

"No..." Jack muttered, "But his money sure the fuck is."

Before the Cerberus Cheerleader could protect, Jack spun on her heel and stalked deeper into the past. Treading through the halls cleared an obscured perception of her past. Little by little, Jack snipped away at the patchy quilt of nightmares, clarity replacing confusion and uncertainty. One of her first memories never involved a crate. She was small enough to still fit in a sink, and she remembered the sunlight pouring through the window as a woman delicately scrubbed her skin. She remembered the goldfish spinning in its little bowl, black eye peering at her, and she stared back, enchanted.

Jack remembered safety and trust, fleeting as it was. But even the evils in Pandora's box crowded hope out. Jack clung to that memory, but the spark fell as she drowned in the horrors of her later childhood.

"Someone's here," Shepard announced.

The artist slid one hand back fluidly, snatching the shotgun from the small magnetic field that attached it to her back. The Eviscerator unsnapped, barrel jutting forward as serrated metal plates popped into place. Brown eyes investigate the field, before regarding wet tracks across the ground, leaving a trail of water from the cargo bridge to the facility's innards. "Probably just a varren..."

"Varren don't use clips against other varren, Jack," The commander stated.

Jack raised a thin brow, brown eyes following after the small river trail before catching a sinewy, slack-jawed dead animal laying in a pool of its own blood, fur matted and singed where energy bursts seared its neck and back. Subject zero pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, "This is bullshit. No one should be here. There's nothing to scavage, just some shitty memorie- Shepard, seriously. Why the fuck are you _still cloaked_?"

The water glistened off Shepard's body. The ice sculpture was melting away, leaving behind invisible pools that were slowly swallowing the commander's form. Silence answered Jack's question.

What was she doing? What was the bitch _doing_? If Jack had learned anything from working with Shepard, it was that Shepard didn't do shit unless she had a reason. Yeah, Shepard was weird... but she was also dangerous. Manipulative. Cruel. The commander got her way by mind fucking people, sealing their loyalty by breaking them utterly.

Jack knew this. She knew this because she saw it. And what Jack didn't witness, Kasumi filled in. The thief may have been a nosy little kleptomaniac but her true craftsmanship lied in her ability to gather and dispense gossip.

Kasumi and Jack exchanged information and bumped heads, trying to make sense of their discoveries. Kasumi was enthralled as they pieced together Shepard's character. Jack, however, recognized just how dangerous Shepard really was. The commander no longer fascinated Jack. She frightened her.

Since the mission's start, each Normandy specialist requested Shepard's help or were directly confronted; each Normandy specialist returned from these personal missions completely changed... Jack wasn't sure if they were changed due to some dying wish-fulfillment or changed because of the commander's mind torture. A few words, and Jacob shot his father. A single action, and Urdnot Wrex watched his people nearly dissolve into utter civil war. Hell, Shepard didn't even _say_ or _do _anything to Mordin, and her inaction shook the old salarian's stout beliefs.

Jack's eyes widened as she measured the lioness, cloaked by shadows, tongue clucking to the rain's beat. Tut. Tut tut. Tut. Subject zero paled.

Shepard was hunting her. She could feel her. Her silence, her eyes... The ex-convict measured her, biting her lower lip as the mirrored reflection rippled, glitching briefly as it adjusted to the interior of the facility. The commander's waterproof armor was drying quickly, water residue evaporating despite the lack of clear sunlight. Before long, the infiltrator disappeared. Squint hard enough and Jack could still faintly see her outline... before she moved and utterly disappeared from her peripheral.

The tigress stalked her, stripes blending against the crumbling, yellowing laboratory walls once immaculately scrubbed... smelling of lemon zest and disinfectant, highlighting the sharp tang of blood, guts, and shit that painted the walls all the colors of freedom.

Freedom. Overwhelming freedom. Her scars pricked when she remembered running into the Cerberus transport, pubescent and tasting freedom. Rebellious teenager from the beginning, running away from the people who created her, into the safety of herself.

_I will never let anyone hurt me again._

_Snap!_

"Jack."

Subject Zero stirred, pupils dilating in wake. Mahogany eyes focused on Miranda who walked around her in a smooth circle. The Cerberus officer's index finger was posed across her thumb. The bitch actually had the nerve to snap her fingers. Deep red lips parted, white teeth glinting, muscles flexing into a round.

"Are you done with your reminiscing or can we plant the bomb and leave?" Lawson cocked her head, emphasizing the point by raising a large, hard-shelled case that contained the heavy explosives with her left arm.

"Awww, what's the matter? Don't have someone to carry your luggage for you, princess?"

Miranda narrowed her eyes, rolling her shoulder, "If I realized you would misplace my skills to be your busboy, I would have brought an omni visor."

"So you can turn down all those iPartner requests piling up in your inbox instead of learning how to survive without depending on your tits and ass?" Jack retorted.

"No. So that I may actually do something worthy of my time," the XO's weight shifted right to left, hips moving and hair brushed immaculately over her shoulder as the rain dried. What the fuck kind of product did cheerleader put in her hair? She'd heard of waterproof cosmetics, but... holy shit. Miranda had to fucking pay a fortune for whatever shampoo, conditioner, and hairspray she was using.

"Like bitching to daddy about the class field trip?" Jack stated.

"No," Lawson curtly replied. "Wondering what intern's idea it was to add you to the Omega-4 dossier list. I want to hunt him down and assure he never finds work here or anywhere else as punishment for his sheer lack of insight and stupidity."

Jack sneered, flashing gums and teeth at the bitch. Rolling with krogan for a week really stuck with her. "Jealous? That I didn't have to suck daddy's cock to be recognized?"

Miranda's glare turned poison, her voice level as it recited venom. "Hardly. Even a moron can do simple background checks. You are not qualifying material for the Omega-4 relay mission."

"The _fuck_ I am!" The firecracker snapped, jutting one finger out as she drew closer to Miranda, teeth glinting and lips curled, "and your _'daddy'_ knows it. The Illusive Man _made_ me. He knows _exactly_ what I can do. He knows I have nothing to lose and that I am one of the scariest all-powerful bitches outside and _inside _the Terminus systems. And he knows no one will miss me if I don't come back. I'm the perfect bomb, bitch."

"Hardly," Miranda corrected, waving her hand, "Bombs go off when you want them to, not when they feel like it."

Jack shoved her foot closer, rubber boots squeaking against wet, cracked tiles. She glared up at Miranda, breathing aggressively enough to push back wisps of hair framing Lawson's pale face. "Care to elaborate, _your higness."_

"I don't have to. You are a liability. You can't even lead a team of two professionals into an abandoned facility to plant a bomb without causing issue, let alone following orders on or off duty," Dark lashes framed aquamarine eyes, the words callously dropping one after another. "You were a mistake. You are still a mistake. And I will not allow you to-"

_**Bang. KAPOOOW.**_

The floor shifted under Jack's feet, throwing the woman off her feet and right on her ass. Miranda also lost her balance, toppling over the twist of her ankle. Lawson cursed, bitching about her sprain as the wildcard remained rattled, confused and clouded. The cheerleader was the first to act, blinking back at Jack. "... Where's the commander...?"

The ex-convict blinked, throwing her weight back onto her shoulders and pushing her entire body into the air before feet hit the ground She scanned the room, noting the dead varren, the pissed off princess, and the distinct lack of Commander Shepard.

Jack and Miranda's tense stare transformed into mutual concern.

"Shit," Jack said, accelerating from run to full on sprint as she spiraled towards the sound of explosives.

_**Bang. Bang bang. PA-KOOOOOOW!**_

Jack readied herself for the blast, braced against the wall as the seismic waves rippled the ground. A series of windows cracked and shattered, sliding doors detached and broken, flung hotly across the hall and into the ceiling before slamming into the floor with a **bang**.

"Commander, status report! I need a status report!" Jack heard Miranda yell into the comm.

The biotic burst through the open door, knocking back rubble and dust as she threw wave after wave of dark energy like a bowling ball, spitting it forward and clearing a path. It was... oddly nostalgic. The memory of energy splitting her mind, the rush of adrenaline and the release of serotonin as the dark energy buzzed her nerves into a faint tickling, tingling sensation. It felt good. The memory of killing in this arena. The memory of escaping her captors. Reliving it as she drove deeper into the beast.

It felt very, very good.

-"Shi-... I wa-.. status repor... now! Aresh isn... payin... enough for this... STATUS REPOR..."-

"That sounded like a krogan," Miranda shouted as she trailed Jack. "Blood pack?"

"Maybe. Question is, what the fuck does the Blood Pack want here? And who the _fuck_ is this Aresh guy whose paying them?"_  
><em>

"The better question is... Where did Shepard _go_?" Miranda obtrusively corrected, before returning to the silent commlink. "Commander. I need your site and a status _now__._"

**Hissssssssssss...**

"... SHIT!" Jack seized Miranda and threw her on the ground, covering the woman's body as she raised a barrier of dark energy around them.

_**...sssssssss... Ba- ROOM**_

Glass hit the biotic wall first, shattering sounds rattling against the small space. A thermal gust singed the air, pushing Jack's planted body a few inches backwards, using Miranda's body as an anchor. Fragmentation flew from the entrance, rocks, pieces of wall, sheets of metal, and tables flung in every which direction across the courtyard. When shit stopped flying, Jack stepped back from Miranda, arms still raised as she maintained the umbrella of protection.

The courtyard was freshly ruined, lunch benches piled near the exit. Jack recognized this place... She remembered this place. It was the only concept of outside she knew in her childhood. This small, interior garden where children played, dined, and fought each other. She'd pound and pound and pound against the window, begging for contact... for recognition... for anything. She was perpetually confused and uneasy. Why did they hate her so much? Why did they ignore her? Screaming higher and higher...

Subject Zero paled as she looked up, eyes glued to the now-shattered window. Behind that broken glass was her first cage. Her first prison cell. Her first taste with authority. Her first experiences. Memories... kills...

Jack narrowed her eyes, released the barrier - dark energy dissipating. She marched towards the blast seat, rounding her shoulders as a new wave of confidence filled her head. She punched a wave of dark energy against the nonfunctional door, knocking the metal sheet off its rail, flying back into the facility's interior. Glass, fragmentation, tiles, dust, and branches crunched underfoot as she studied her former pen.

The place was shattered, walls bellowed out, clouds of smoke streaming out of gaping holes produced by structural damage. Partial and intact bodies littered the ground, the smell of charred flesh intermingling with the lingering chemical vapor.

"Blood Pack mercenaries..." Miranda voiced, kneeling to regard a krogan helmet, liquid dripping from the bright red tubes that decorated the heavy war mask. "... This is Rage Armor... This belonged to a battlemaste-.. Oh dear lord..."

"What? What is it?" Jack demanded, scavenging ammo from a crisped vorcha.

Miranda grit her teeth, stood up, and kicked the helmet away, "The krogan's head was still in there. Well.. _part_ of its head was..."

"... One of these days, I'm going to find out a way to decapitate a krogan cleanly... I _know_ it can be done. I thought the C4 might do something, but I guess I have to cross that off my list."

The Princess and the Punk slowly turned their heads to regard the disembodied voice floating above them, just above the staircase. Jack couldn't see her... but she knew she was there.

"Commander. What _happened?_" Miranda demanded.

"I killed an entire band of mercenaries with a few explosives," Shepard's voice replied. "I mean.. I thought that much was obvious."

Lawson slouched, thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of her nose, annoyed. "Why did you disappear?"

"You two kept yammering on and on and on and on... You both bored me," Shepard's voice grumbled. "I don't _like_ to be bored."

Jack and Miranda both stared slack-jawed at the staircase where Shepard might or might not be.

"By the way... I found a someone poking around up here," The voice whistled. "He's the guy who hired the cheap-ass Blood Pack company. Claims he knows you, Jackie girl... Back when you were kids"

There she was. The lioness. Poised for the kill, bent low and blending into the pitch darkness. Jack couldn't see her, but she knew Shepard was staring directly at her. She could feel the unsettling ice-gray eyes fixed on her. Reading every muscle tension, every reaction, reading Jack utterly. Shepard was exploiting Jack's weaknesses... She was tearing her apart and displaying the little girl buried behind layers of arrogance, anger, hatred and ugliness. Jack shivered, brown eyes darting fearfully as she searched for the only visible person who was unlikely to kill her.

Lawson's brows furrowed, almond-shaped eyes narrowed as her lips thinned in frustration at the commander's juvenile display of dominance. Blue eyes caught Jack's lingering gaze. Miranda blinked, face blank as she regarded Jack. Miranda didn't recognize her. Jack's mascara streamed down her face, black roots staining cheeks marble grey. She chewed on a chapped lip cheaply painted red, fearfully averting her gaze as she returned to her tormentor.

"... shit..."

"You don't have to face him," Lawson suggested, shaking her head. "In fact, I think it wise that you don't."

Jack sneered, the anger flooding through her body. A second wind filled her chest, securely hiding the scared little girl behind something better than a fucking desk nailed to the floor. Subject Zero lifted her shoulders and walked forward, marching up the stairs to meet her past head on. Jack had to tie up her past. She had to kill it, or else she'd never rise from the ashes a better person. Jack had the change... from the very core of her being.

_Is this religious ecstasy?_ Jack thought. Realizing that everything is impertinent. Everything changes. She would walk away an entirely different person... Who knows. If she survives the Suicide Mission... she'll be a total stranger. Someone new. Always living... always dying._  
><em>

And then the words echoed. Remembering only a little...

_O living always, always dying! O the burials of me past and present..._

It was there. And it was profound.

Jack walked up the stairs, one foot after the other. She could see Shepard's outline more clearly from a closer proximity, the optical illusion fading only slightly by the closed distance. She ignored the commander, searching familiar ground in the dark temple. It was so different in her dreams. The floors were glossy white, and there was so much activity. Poked, prodded, pushed, and played with by a multitude of scientists. There were a few who made it easier... slipped in treats, told her stories... the nurse who gave body paints was Jack's saving grace. She savored each color, dipping a finger into the colorful liquid and spreading it across her body.

He helped her escape. He hijacked the shuttle, got her off Pragia. He taught her how to survive, how to use her powers to protect herself. You will always be wanted, so never stop moving. And try to keep your head down.

Jack was never very good at keeping her head down, unfortunately. Bad temper and what have you.

"He said his name is Aresh Aghdashloo. Probably made up, like your moniker... He's in the lab room. Y'know. The one with the creepy chair."

Subject zero narrowed her eyes. Her fingers turned into her palms. Her fists rolled and her knuckles whitened. Jack walked past Shepard's ghost, stepping into the laboratory. The room still smoldered, charred tile and broken walls unwelcoming as the biotic intruded.

There, centering the room was the bad place.

She could feel her scars burn as her eyes braced the bolted-down chair. It was occupied by a stranger, a dirty, balding man who had aged terribly. The kids were always Jack's age, give or take two years. This man looked to be at least twenty years Jack's senior, skin wrinkled and pitted, hair thin and gone... He was bloody, clothes and skin lacerated by flying glass and fragmentation. His neck, wrists, and ankles were braced into the chair. Jack stared at the man for a good long time before she realized he was completely unresponsive.

"... Is he dead?" Jack hesitated.

"No," Shepard replied. "He's unconscious."

A machine pistol 'floated' around the biotic. It hovered in the space between Jack and the knocked out stranger.

"You came here to get rid of your past. If this guy was really one of those kids you love to bitch about, then he's a part of that past. If you want to erase it all, you have to be thorough."

Jack shook her head, collecting the gun. "Why was he here?" She whispered.

Shepard shrugged, "Didn't wait long enough to ask. Seeing as he hired a biotic krogan to cover his ass. But I imagine it's the same reason you're here. To find some answers, figure out what went wrong, make his commander happy so that he can get back to the bigger picture such as... you know... saving the fucking galaxy instead of being a nosy prick. Funny... he wasn't pleased when I started to blow up parts of the facility for giggles... You'd think he'd be happy to see the shit hole burn, like you'd be. I'm guessing he was here to start it back up again."

Jack's jaw nearly dropped, "_what..?!_"

"People do stupid shit to make sense of themselves," Shepard continued. "He was just a lab rat, Jack. You were the special one. They used him like fodder, to make sure they didn't kill you."

"How the _fuck_ do you know that?!"

Shepard's cloak finally powered down, static shimmering over her figure. The commander wasn't even looking at Jack. She was staring at the man, strapped to the chair, chest collapsing and lifting with every shallow breath. She tapped her omni tool, fingertips dancing across the orange screen. Jack's wrist beeped shortly after the soldier minimized the device. "I hacked into their terminals. My tool is swimming with classified Cerberus information about Project Zero. You were an anomaly. The other kids were there to test all the fancy new lab equipment on... so they wouldn't kill you."

The commander gestured towards the man by rolling her shoulder, still offering the gun to Jack. "You escaped because the kids organized a riot. The faculty was pre-occupied. And you made your get away with an on-staff nurse named Jack Darnay. They found Darnay dead, or... found parts of his body floating in Omega's black market. Batarian slavers, I take it? Intercepted the both of you during your escape route...? Before Torfan, they used to tattoo their slaves..." Shepard gestured around her head. "Just above the crown, like yours..."

Jack's jaw tensed.

"Figured you'd like to get rid of all that shit too. I've already wiped my tool. You've got the only copies. Just burn it... get rid of it... kill this guy over here... start fresh."

The convict narrowed her eyes. Her eyes crossed slightly, peering down at the machine pistol. It was an M4 Shuriken, worn and decorated with layers of childish stickers. Jack lifted her brow. "... Pink girly stickers, Shepard? Don'tcha think you are being a little overt at this point?"

Shepard shrugged. "Would you believe me if I said I got that from a pawn shop in Omega?"

Jack shook her head, plucking the heavy pistol from Shepard's extended hand. The woman swallowed, sliding back the hammer, flipping the safety on and off with a quick tap of her finger. She eyed the stoic commander, gaze etching back as she regarded Miranda who busied herself by sifting through her omni-tool's reminders and messages. Jack is about to kill an unconscious man related to her past and Lawson has the nerve to actually check her fucking _e-mails._

Subject Zero grabbed that fucking gone and walked up to the dreamless stranger, pressing the barrel's mouth right between his eyes. It'd be over so fast. It would just take three quick bursts from the Shuriken, and he'd be dead. No begging, no confessions, no pain. One minute there, the next gone.

_If you want to erase your past, you have to be thorough. _Shepard's voice echoed. Jack stiffened. The commander was a living mystery, a blank card with little history. Her lack of familiarity is what gave her power. She was unpredictable, unknowable... a fucking question mark with a pissed off frown.

Shepard's lack of history made her utterly ruthless. Shepard's lack of identity gave her the freedom of malleability.

But was the trade of anonymity worth the lack of friendships? She who wears walls and pushes people back?

Perhaps for Shepard it was worth it. And Perhaps Shepard enjoyed the self-inflicted conditions.

But that's Shepard. And Shepard isn't Jack.

**BAM BAM BAM**

Jack shot the chair's restraints. One, Two, Three. She turned to regard Shepard.

"I want this asshole in cargo. We'll let the Alliance deal with him, you know how they love having a good set of reasons to shake their heads at Cerberus." The convict collected the man, pulling him off the bolted torture device. "I want the explosives strung up in this room, especially around this fucking chair. I want to see these place turn into a boiling pot of disinfecting fire."

The commander said nothing.

_Check mate, bitch. _Jack thought to herself. _You really thought I'd let you manipulate me like that? Fuck. You._

Lawson sighed, tapping her foot impatiently, "This has been a wonderful use of our time. Now can we plant the bombs and return to more pressing matters?"

"... Pressing...?" Jack hissed. "I haven't been here in _years_. This place tortured me for _years_ and I'm just now figuring all this shit out... and you aren't even going to keep your stupid fucking opinion to yourself for just a couple of minutes?"

Miranda narrowed her eyes, "You do recall the _list_ of complaints I forwarded after you helped me save my sister, correct?"

"Is this over the comment I made about her being prettier than you?"

"She's my _genetic twin_. And _no_. Your lack of intelligence isn't even worthy of a complaint."

Jack seethed. "_My_ lack of intelligence? What about _YOURS._ This fucking guy named The Illusive Man of _all_ names runs a human-centric organization for twenty sum years that has a long record of hurting a lot of people, _including innocent children_, and you are still stupid enough to defend him!"

Miranda glared, flushing red. "Cerberus is a large orga-"

"You know what, Miri?" Shepard suddenly interrupted, blinking between the princess and the fire cracker. "Jack _does_ have a point. I mean, how much evidence do you need to be convinced that your boss sucks balls?"

Lawson sighed, rolling her eyes as she sarcastically drawled back, "Oh, I don't know. Enough to convince me that he single handedly tortured young children?"

The commander blinked. A hand rested under her chin, finger gingerly tapping it as grey eyes rolled up. She sniffed, nostrils flaring before the lion's gaze fixed on brunette Barbie. "You're sure about that?"

"I am a skeptic, not an idiot, Shepard," Miranda groaned.

"... Well, alright then. I left it up to you," Shepard shrugged.

Jack suddenly lost her balance, a force smacking the back of Jack's knees and throwing her down. Something dug into her skin and her muscles cramped, an uncomfortable tingling sensation pricking her body. Her arms slacked and the unconscious stranger toppled to the floor with a sickening bang. It was too fast. The biotic did not have time to react. The initial shock of rough handling wore off, and Jack could finally assess the situation.

Shepard sealed Jack's arms against the cold, hard surface of the chair - snapping the cuff around her neck and quickly tying the convict's ankles and knees with salvaged duct tape. Her pulse quickened. Her temperature rose. She could feel it... her scars burned.

"Oh god, god god, get me out of this, get me out of this, oh god get me out of this," Jack cried, struggling against the chair, against the bad place.

Frightened brown eyes stared at Shepard, who only smiled.

_Check Mate._

The lioness had pounced.

"Please... Please get me out of this. This is a bad place. I have to go. I have to.." Jack cried, pulling against the tight restraints. They dented her skin, rubbing the old scars across her wrists, neck, and ankles raw. "Oh god, The pain, stop the pain, Oh god please don't..."

Jack's first tattoo was not designed by choice. Her skin had become permanently marred due to the experiments and eezo therapy. The bad place marked her, physically and mentally. The scientists who painted her numbed flesh by cutting it open with their knives did not tell her that the open wounds would be directly exposed to a blanket of raw eezo as she lay chained by a bolted chair. It cut her again and again and again. The pain was so overwhelming.

Jack sobbed.

"... Shepard... What... What are you doing?" Jack could hear Miranda's voice distantly.

She could feel her scars split open. She could feel the blanket swallow her alive. But Jack couldn't fight off the restraints. She was just a scared little girl who could not stop crying, "It hurts so much, stop... stop... I'm begging you... Stop..."

"...Shepard..." Miranda continued. "Y-you can't _do_ this."

"I can do whatever I want," Jack heard her... the cold snap of her voice, empty and hollow of empathy. "I'm tempted to just leave her here like this, really."

_No no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO "_NO NO NO NO NO! NO DON'T LEAVE ME! NO! Just kill me! I'm begging you, just kill me, I won't, I won't, I won't.."

The pain bit through her tissue, heat breaking through the flesh, across the mounts of faint pink scars peeking across patterned skin. Jack was a little girl, gaped baby teeth biting into a tongue compressor. She was hungry. They didn't let her eat that day - she was tired, depleted and frustrated. The doctors instructed her on a few breathing exercises. They told her they were decorating her body with elaborate stones, especially across the flesh wounds they painted across her arms, legs, and neck earlier.

The strange stones were cool across her naked body at first... and then they burned.

For three months straight, she'd drift in and out of consciousness to the smell of her own piss, shit, vomit and blood - scientists periodically cleaning up after her, but the stench always lingered.

"Shepard, I can't let you do this," Miranda stated.

"The hell you can't," Shepard shrugged. "Or did you forget chain of command? We both take orders from Mister Illusive.. but we have one little difference between us. I rank higher than you. You are _my_ second in command. So... you wanna breach my orders? You'll be breaching _his_ orders too."

Jack only cried. She could hardly make sense of the past and the present. She couldn't tell who she was, where she was, why she was there, if all of it was just an escape. Perhaps the Normandy was all just an escape. It made sense... the reapers, the collectors, all this fantastically weird bullshit. That would come from the imagination of an eight year old. Just a dream to distract her from reality.

"I want to go to bed," Jack sobbed, "It hurts so much, just let me go to sleep. I'm so tired..."

"...This... This isn't _right," _Miranda's voice strained.

"Chain of Command, Lawson. Learn it."

"It hurts... I just... Please, please let me go to bed," the imaginary voices kept whispering in her head. Scientists... Miranda... Shepard... The nurse... the kids... and the rain. That rain. It pounded, it moved, it kept hitting the ceiling, slamming against the windows. She could hear the thunder distantly, as the typhoon continued its dialogue with the jungle.

"... No, I won't let you do this," Miranda protested.

"Or you are gonna do what, Laws-"

Jack could hear the thwack of a fist hitting something. The room shook as a heavy half-ton weight hit the ground and roll with loud collateral down the stairs, a string of obscenities slicing the air. She lied there, fingers and toes tingling as the ties around her wrists and feet were cut loose. She could feel someone pull her body off the chair. Jack's knees buckled and her body went slack. Brown eyes searched for her savior, finding Miranda Lawson braced against her, vice grip keeping Jack up, the convict's arm slung haphazardly over Lawson's shoulders. The hallucinations spiraled across her mind as the agent's voice faded in and out of the screams, the crying, the smell, the pain, the rain, the rain, the never-ending rain...

"Jack... Jack stay with me... Jack, come on. Come on, Jack. Dammit... Come on..." Miranda shouted, shaking her and snapping her fingers.

Subject Zero paled, collapsing in Miranda's arms as the scars cooled the woman's hands. The past, the present... the child, the criminal... the victim, the suspect...

The emotions, the feelings, the past, everything flooded her all at once.

"Jack... Stay... Jack c'm-... Jack... Jack pleas-"

She slipped. Dark spots grew larger. Miranda's face shifted colors... Jack could see Shepard slowly climbing back up those steps behind Lawson. Shepard did not smile nor did she frown. The commander only watched her, staring as the Cerberus loyalist gingerly held Jack.

The lioness watched as Jack blacked out.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note::<strong>

Listen to Agnus Dei by Rufus Wainwright.

Tattoos are scars, and scars are tattoos. They make us, give us identification, connects us to the past.

And now another mystery - Why the hell did Shepard do that to Jack, and what was she trying to achieve?

Thank you so much for your patience. It means a lot to me that you've continued to follow this story as I take my time to write. Miranda's chapter has been in my head since October, but finding the perfect set-up and execution has been difficult.

Here's some future chapter titles so you have some idea of what to expect. Note - The titles and order of story are subject to change.

Ch. 12: If I Had a Heart (Zaeed Massani's Story)  
>Ch. 13: Halo (Garrus Vakarian's Story)<br>Ch. 14: What the Water Gave Me(Thane Krios's Story; with ties to the fic 'What the Water Gave Me')  
>Ch. 15: For We Are Many (Legion's Story)<br>Ch. 16: The Hand That Feeds (The Illusive Man's Story)  
>Ch. 17: Elementary (Liara T'Soni's Story)<br>Ch. 18: Visur Vatnesenda-Rosu (Kaiden Alenko's Story)  
>Ch. 19: The Art Teacher (Jack's Story)<br>Ch. 20: Poker Face (James Vega's Story)  
>Ch. 21: Ghost in the Machine (EDI's story)<br>Ch. 22: Outlier (Javik's Story)  
>Ch. 23: Bastardized Ink (?'s Story)<br>Ch. 24: Wings (Admiral Anderson's Story  
>Epilogue: Cogito Ergo Sum (Shepard's Story)<p>

End.


	12. Even Stevens

_Just a small edit to the ending. I uploaded the wrong file this morning, so the (previous) ending just kind of... dropped off the hill. Moral to the story - don't upload at 3am in the morning._

**PATCHWORK GIRL**

**EVEN STEVENS  
>Zaeed Massani's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

* * *

><p>When Jack joined her first gang, The Lost Girls, she learned to grow accustom to a variety of nicknames. Some of the sisters called her Ginger after she dyed her pixie cut a sharp tangerine orange. Bulldog was another favored name for often lashing out unpredictably. There was Jackie Nought, Doubles, Painter, and Q-Ball. Even after she left the gang, Jack picked up nicknames from acquaintances, buyers, enemies, and soon-to-be-dead friends.<p>

Nicknames never bothered her. Never. Until Shepard dubbed her 'Sunny.'

After blacking out, Jack woke up in Miranda's arms. Her nose burned from the smelling salts in Lawson's hand and her ears thrummed with the sound of the Kodiak's low engine. As her eyes adjusted to dim light, she could see the strange, unconscious man strapped to a stretcher. Shepard sat across from the stranger and crew, grey eyes trained outside with her forehead pressed against the window frame. She watched the woman's lips part into a sigh, misting the glass with her breath.

Shepard looked bored. She looked bored to tears.

_I'm still alive, bitch. This is not game over. Fuck. You._

Jack punched the detonator without warning. The crew barely managed to avoid the worst of the shockwave. Much to Tali and Vakarian's great annoyance, the Kodiak required extensive repairs. She even managed to rouse Shepard's ire. The firecracker could not drain her smiling satisfaction when Lawson regretfully informed the crew the Omega-4 schedule's delay and an impromptu three-day shore leave on Omega as Shepard and other honey tongued crew members (or, in Grunt's case, intimidating nostril flare) negotiated with the black market for high-end supplies.

Shore leave was not Jack's intention, though it was definitely double cherries nesting right on top of the pissing-off-Shepard ice cream sundae.

The first couple of days were surprisingly pleasant. Instead of questioning the 'Aresh' stranger, she sent the man packing (Grunt helped by showing his teeth and flaring his nostrils, mostly to entertain himself.).

Over shore leave, more and more crew members drifted into her quarters. Jack occupied herself with the constant flow of clients, finally requesting money instead of information or favors. Soon, she opened up her studio to associates of Aria T'Loak. In two days, Jack managed to pull together at least 2,000 creds. It was a good pile of cash without stealing or cheating her way to pick it up. Healthy, wholesome, lawful work... on Omega.

"I know what you're doing," Shepard said, standing just above the staircase as Jack inked some pin-up asari on an acquainted batarian named Anto Korragan. The tattoo was vaguely reminiscent of Anto's boss, Aria T'Loak, Omega's Queen Bee and the bodyguard's one-sided infatuation. Jack had absolutely no interest in reopening any communication between herself and Shepard, choosing to focus on the illustration's ample butt, giving it more volume and more... ampleness.

"She's occupied. Leave us," Anto growled. Jack could tell the four-eyed weirdo was enjoying his session, mostly because the dude would not stop yammering on and on and on about how awesome Aria was without being interrupted or suspecting the subject of his love to somehow overhear and belittle him. Other people talked about stupider shit. At least Anto was vaguely entertaining, if not predictable.

"... How much did you pay little miss sunny, batarian?" Shepard numbly question.

"It is no concern of yours, _Shen," _Anto snarled, spit gurgling between dark molars, the left set of eyes blinking independent of the other set.

Shepard sighed, "If you are going to insult me, how about something unrelated to Torfan? I mean... Alright, sure, you might still be a little sour about that whole deal..."

"... We recovered my brother's corpse with his eyes gouged out," he hissed.

"... But I think it's in everyone's best interest if we let bygones be bygones and work together harmoniously. There's bigger fish to fry, you know. Such as killing massive galaxy swallowing world ending unknowable demons from the outer reaches of space." Shepard walked down the stairs. She exaggerated her head tilt, practically resting her ear on her right shoulder as grey eyes measured the alien.

Anto's eyes widened. He dislodged himself from Jack's chair, hand sliding across his thigh as a customized machine pistol whirred alive between the batarian's fingers. The tattooist rolled her eyes, placing the mechanical tool on the table and glaring at the mocking commander. _I fucking hate you so much... _"Shepard. What do you want?"

The commander carried a small omni knife between her fingers, a tiny pick compared to Anto's drawn weapon. Still, her fingers moved, gracefully guiding it between digits, the blade's orange light flashing between passes. "I want a tattoo."

"Yeah?" Jack snarled. "Get in line then."

"Your wait list in six days long. I leave tomorrow. I suspect you will be gone tomorrow."

Jack narrowed her eyes. _I hate you so, so, so much._ "Fuck off, Shepard. I won't do it."

"Bet I can change your mind."

"Bet you fucking can't."

Shepard shrugged, raising a hand with spread fingers. She started to count down, one finger dropping as the number fell from her lips, "... Five... Four..."

Jack grit her teeth, rolled her eyes, heaved her shoulders, and started to pack away the fucking tattoo gun. "C'mon, Anto."

"... Three"

The artist snarled, focusing on the batarian who still had his gun trained on Shepard's head. "Let's finish up _("two")_ in some fucking hotel room or some shit. _("one")_ I'm not staying here with crazy bitc-"

_Ding ding_ ding.

She blinked. Her arm buzzed briefly with the sound bite, alerting Jack to credits deposited in her personal account. Fingers flashed across her wrist, conjuring the translucent screen across an inked arm. Jack's jaw unhinged as she read the numbers flickering across the tool's display.

_In Progress: 200,000 credit deposit from Unknown Source._

"The FUCK you GET this money?!" Jack asked disjointed, dropping uncritical pronouns and verbs.

Shepard popped a shoulder with one good rotation, punching it with a good 'thwack'. Her left arm was still stiff after getting nailed by a geth hunter in a mission prior to the Pragia incident. Jack noticed the bitch hated using medigel, prefered stiff muscles and scars. "I know the Shadow Broker."

"The fuck you do," Jack hissed.

"Nope. I really actually know the Shadow Broker," Shepard sniffed. "There's something you can tell your purple goddess, Anto. Nudge nudge. wink wink. hint hint. You can leave us alone now if you haven't caught the clue."

The batarian shot an exaggerated look at the woman, all four eyes fixed on the disenchanted commander. Jack could sense pure tension between Aria's bodyguard and crazed queen bitch crossing her arms as she responded to the quadruple glare stare down. The tattoo artist was pretty sure Anto wanted to string Shepard by the veins of her optical nerves, straight up gouge out and hang her by her own eyeballs. God willing, Anto's loyalty to Omega overrode his desire to torture the cold-blooded cunt blocking the right stairwell. He sighed with a gurgled rasp, collecting his clothes and regarding the incomplete tattoo reflected by the full body mirror Jack had recently installed in the room. Jack rolled her eyes, tossed a small disposable package of medigel and bandage at the batarian, of which he caught in mid air.

"Wash that shit three times a day. Put that medigel on it after each washing, for at least two weeks," Jack directed. "If you don't stick to the routine, your skin will bruise and turn blue. It will leave one hell of a nasty reminder of how you should've followed my instructions. Got it?"

Anto grunted, two upper brow ridges perked as the lower ones narrowed as his eyes remained fixed on Shepard. It was a weird, mixed visual message that expressed distaste, irritation, and acknowledgement. His eyes closed then opened. Anto's attention found Jack, four pupils meeting her gaze. Jack stared at the ridge separating Anto's lower and upper eyes. Maybe that's why Anto respected Jack so much despite her obvious human-ness. She could actually 'look' at him in the eyes, unlike other aliens. Batarians were not the best at conveying their feelings through words. Culturally stuck in their ways, batarians primarily communicated with their eyes. The fact most aliens were unable and often unwilling to understand the unique language model only increased most of the alien's frustrated misgivings concerning the stupidity and stubbornness of aliens who had less than four eyes. Jack figured out the trick at an early age, when she was learning how to understand and lie to her former masters during her slavery. You just had to stare at that space between the upper and lower set of eyes. Focus on the ridge, and pay attention to the myriad of language cues performed within peripheral vision. Aria's bodyguard must have noticed this behavior inherit in former children slaves of batarian captors, assuming he probably started his career as a slaver in the beginning.

It was weird. They both kind of respected each other in a distant, strange way... despite the roles they once played. _People change. Always have, always will. Can't hold a grudge against something that is already dead, replaced by someone completely new..._

Jack couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, she was still exploring Stockholm's syndrome. Lord knows she was understanding a former batarian slaver, a fellow of the brutes who ruined her brief, happy freedom with her hero, friend, and 'father'.

"I will have this finished later," Anto ordered. The tone of his voice was a miscommunication produced by the translation chip. His eyes expressed sincerity and even a level of begging. It wasn't an order, it was a request on Jack's terms. The batarian really wanted to complete his fantasy tattoo of his boss and respected her work.

"Yeah," Jack replied evenly. "I will. Just pay me then."

He nodded before stepping around Shepard, maintaining a wide arching distance from the Bloody Shepherdess as he stepped outside.

"I love guard dogs... so predictable," The commander whistled through the gap between her front teeth. "Throw a bone at them no matter how rotten, and they'll bring it back to their masters every single time. Aria will give her pet dog a lovely pet on the head for being the first to tell her that the Shadow Broker works for me now. Information has a funny way of being valuable to the powerful."

Jack sighed, ignoring Shepard's insulting point as she peeled off sticky plastic wrap from the chair, wiping down furniture with rubbing alcohol and anti-bacterial spray. She placed the used needles in a biohazard baggy, discarding it responsibly. Jack tossed the tubes and tips into an ultrasonic cleaner. Jack flicked the switch on, the low hum of mechanical wash breaking the tension between science experiment and psychopath. Fingers broke apart the sterile wrap clinging to the gun, cord, and power source, taping a fresh barrier film around the machine. She grunted, finally regarding Shepard pointedly. "I tattoo you, I get 200,000 credits. No tricks, no bullshit, no fucking killing me and taking back your shitty money. One hour. Only one fucking hour. Deal?"

"Three hours," Shepard countered, rocking back and forth from tiptoe to heel, watching Jack.

"Two hours."

"Three hours," She repeated. "And it will be three hours. You won't turn away 200,000 credits for honest work."

Jack frowned, attaching the tubes, tips, needles, and rubber bands to the machine. She chose not to answer.

_Ding ding ding._

Another groan escaped the fugitive's lips, brown eyes boring past the translucent orange of her omnitool's projected screen, glaring at Shepard and snapping her teeth. She hated accepting the bitch's messages. She hated it more when Shepard actually _timed_ the send button. Kasumi told her that the woman got a weird kick out of scheduling the time it took her to _manage people. _And as far as Jack and Kasumi could tell, the woman never missed a beat to her little puppet performance, pulling strings and watching the characters in her story move exactly how she expected them to move in timed, perfect pitches.

Shepard was a master musician, writing and conducting the orchestra of her ship. Wand weaving the air, instruments swaying too and fro to the swing of her stick.

Jack sighed, tired eyes searching Shepard's stiff upper lip, pale face framed by just-washed brown hair that Shepard habitually ran her fingers through from forehead to crown. The cobalt blue paint framed her nose , cheeks and jaw line with turian signature, the lines immaculately traced over her face. Shepard probably didn't trust Jack to tattoo her face, hence the temporary paint. The Palavanian ink would stay on her skin for at least a year, but would fade over time. Jack was loath to admit it, but Shepard's face paint was beautiful. There was a perfect symmetry to the strokes, each line demonstrated perfectly across her skin despite the obvious lack of important turian facial features. The commander was in the right not to trust Jack to tattoo her face considering the disadvantage on Shepard's part. It would've been too tempting to exploit the bitch by drawing krogan penises across her face. Hoot and fucking hollar.

A rasped, dusty voice thrumbed from her omnitool. Jack blinked, the alien voice grazing the air, a thirsty sound that emulated gravel. Inked fingers opened the incoming message. Suddenly, a variety of images forming above the space across the back of her arm. Long curled script formed sharply across the screen in various forms. Images of ancient goddesses and gods brushed the screen, followed by oceans and desert. A dichotomy of images split the screen, half baren and the other fruitful. Ancient footage of drell struggling on their strangled home world framed by harsh sand and lifeless worlds balanced images and vids of the hanar homeworld Kahje, ocean crashing into far more forgiving sand, white gentle beads decorating landscape carved by a healthy, living planet.

The song continued, throaty and mourning. Reminiscing and hopeful. Heartbroken and accepting.

"When did you hack into my omni-tool..." Jack whispered, voice barely brokering the raw, untranslated recitation.

Shepard stripped offer her clothes, peeling off the old blood stained dirty brown vest, leaving the fingerless sleeves and tight sports bra on. She laid across Jack's cot, framing her fingers behind her back, mimicking a swimming swan. "I'd like the tattoo right here."

Jack snarled. "When did you hack into my fucking omni-tool, Shepard?"

"I didn't hack into it. I merely reprogrammed it to synch with mine while you were unconscious."

"... You... invaded my privacy... after you intentionally knocked me out..."

Shepard blinked. "I know you are angry. I know you are upset. I know you probably want to kill me. I am offering you a better solution. It's easy."

Rolling her shoulder, the commander raised three fingers. "For this many hours, you get to draw whatever you want on my back and in return you get 200,000 credits. Golden opportunity. The images and soundbites I sent you are just some inspiration I came across on the extranet."

Jack narrowed her eyes. Was Shepard still toying with her...?

"... Whatever I want..."

"... As long as it meets my approval, yes."

The ex-convict shrugged, "It'll be hard to resist tattooing a giant, pornographically posed hanar and volus across your back..."

"... 25 percent tip...," Shepard continued.

Jack countered. "No. 50."

"35."

"40."

"You would not trade in 70,000 freebie credits just to draw xeno-porn on my back," Shepard rolled her eyes.

Jack grit her teeth, "Fine. 35 percent. Provided you don't say a single fucking thing to me. I will walk away in the middle of our session and you can have a half-formed whatever with a needle stabbed between your shoulders."

Shepard nodded, "Minor clause. My crew and I will be leaving tomorrow, so I highly recommend you pack your personal things and clean this space out completely. Otherwise, I will retract a certain percentage from your earnings today… considering I now have access to your accounts. So please, don't defecate under the bed before leaving. It would be very inappropriate and there will be cost penalties."

Jack narrowed her eyes, "You really do know the fucking Shadow Broker don't you..."

"Yes." Shepard smirked. "I really, really do."

The ex-convict snapped on a pair of latex gloves, blowing into it briefly like a balloon before sticking each hand through the protective skin. She streamed the sound file of the alien's voice to the golden amplifier that clipped over the shape of her ear. She studied the dichotomy of images, the split of hell and paradise, desert and water, thirst and quenched... A layering of the worst and the best experiences. Jack frowned and proceeded to match an image to another, collaging the interests into a smooth quilt.

She nodded and equipped the machine, sitting in her work chair as she loomed over Shepard's half-naked body. "Alright. So, I'm just going to take this ancient drell poem you seem to think I don't understand and just tattoo it right to your back. Capiche?"

Jack smiled, regarding Shepard's face flare poison in the full body mirror across from them. The bitch raised her head, her reflection meeting Jack's . Shepard kept forgetting Jack used all her funds to buy a stupid full-bodied mirror from an orphan band that reminded her of The Lost Girls. Not entirely useless. The mirror had multiple purposes - people could finally see their tattoos after ink sessions and it was a wonderful way to fuck with Shepard's head. The high of rousing Shepard's reaction thrilled Jack. It meant she was getting the better of her perfectly practiced people management skills. You do not manage Jack's life. Not without a hell of a fight.

She hunched over bitch queen's back, dipping the pen into burgundy brown ink and tapping the peddle with her foot as the machine came to life at Jack's touch. "You okay with that idea or not, Shepard?"

Pale shoulders rolled, muscle morphing the nicely healed tattoo of Athame and her disciples. "Sounds great to me, Sunny."

Jack chose not to re-acknowledge the plan of action with Shepard, ignoring her as she began to cut the woman's skin into an establishing pattern to the familiar script.

"You know... Sunny is kinda catchy. Suits you." Shepard had asked, voice echoing across Jack's room as the needle groomed the woman's back.

"... Because I can shove this needle where the sun don't shine right now?"

She narrowed her eyes, still staring at Jack as she spoke. "Clever. But no. How familiar are you with Van Gogh?"

A sinking feeling hit Jack. She concentrated on inking the strange, long loops and fluid circles of the drell script. It was weird... similar but different from contemporary drell. Jack knew this because there the Lost Girls was primarily a drell girl gang in Omega, and they all wanted a tattoo that represented them. They liked how tattoos looked on asari, humans, and turians, preferring the pain to the gentler route of ultraviolet or turian ink. Some of the members wrote a lot of ironic shit, in some short hand script scrapped together from years of schooling at Kahje by devoted hanar priests. They were deeply religious, but shared a weird variation between the teachings of the hanar's 'Enkindlers' and their own polytheistic culture. The majority of the gang believed their gods were some variation of Enkindlers, gifting them with the sight of experience, in that all drell were eidetic _like _the Enkindlers were said to 'be able to touch and see all experiences.'

Jack had a hard time relating to autistic gods, but at least she did her research. All the girls always wanted an ancient prayer from their homeworld, something about revenge and fear, sandstorms and droughts. The ocean drying up, and Siha alive within them. 'I am Siha' implying 'We are Siha', the warrior goddess that lives parallel incarnations.

"Why do you ask?," Jack answered, tracing those long, looping letters. She didn't know what the fuck it meant, but she gave it her own meaning. I am Siha. I am Siha. I am Siha.

All those girls who got that tattoo had died. Maybe Shepard would follow them.

"Curious to see if you would lie to me or not. Of course you know Van Gogh. You've taped his paintings all over the place." Shepard gesticulated with her arms, still facing the ground in her weird position on the cot. "Anyways, as you probably know, Van Gogh used to paint sunflowers. Really beautiful sunflowers... Fascinated Gogh to no end, too... Well, I should correct myself, until _his _end. Ever seen a real sunflower before, Jack?" Shepard continued.

Shepard knew about Kasumi. She knew. Did her omni-tool have a listening device on it? Was she stalking her? Was she just toying with her? What did she want? Maybe it was a coincidence...

The commander yawned, "Of course you have. Those things are an invasive species. Humans keep dragging them across the galaxy and planting them across settlements... Unless you've never been to earth or any of these colonies..."

Jack remained silent.

"... Anyways, Sunflowers are weird flowers. Technically, they are more like weeds. Pretty as hell, especially when you see a field of them... but, they ruin the soil. Unless its another sunflower spurtin' from its creeper root, nothing will be able to grow near its roots... and it has pretty tangled roots to carry all that weight. Self pollinating too. Nuisance." Shepard shook her head. "But for some reason, for some weird reason, Van Gogh actually thought these obnoxious weeds were beautiful."

Jack concentrated on those long loops, lips moving as she mouthed the curse haunting her thoughts. Siha. Siha. Siha. Die. Die. Die.

"Until I got to thinking... Maybe Van Gogh wasn't painting still lives of flowers... Maybe he was painting still lives of his friends," Shepard continued. "You see. No one liked Van Gogh, especially in the last three years when he started to paint nothing but fucking sunflowers day in and day out - only thing that ever visited him at the hospital. People flat out refused to let him do portraits. He couldn't even afford a prostitute to model for him. So he turned to the next best thing... sunflowers. He painted his friends. Sunflowers. The perfect friend... the kind who does exactly what you want without protesting, because they lack the advantage of a brain... but that also makes them terrible conversationalists. Isn't that right, Sunny?"

Jack meditated on the ink and ignored the temptation to drive the vibrating needle through the commander's spine. Shepard could poop in a tube for a couple of days until Cerberus reconstructed her nervous system… she didn't want to kill her, she only wanted to punch her. Hard. She watched the needle stab the open wounds across Shepard's back, brown ink staining breaking skin.

"I would love your comment, Jack," Shepard coolly replied, emphasizing advantage.

After a minute, Jack just rolled her stool across the room by kicking backwards, the back of her fist punching her stereo's power. Heavy metal streamed through the speaker system, deep base shaking her room. She leaned backwards and snapped her gum as the Commander turned and shot a poisonous glare at her, mouth moving in shouted expletives. Jack mocked her, hand curved around her ear as she mouthed 'What?' and 'I can't HEAR you', gum snapping between her teeth.

Shepard was not going to get the best of her. Her room, her rules. Shepard seethed, settling back into the artist's bed so Jack could continue tattooing on her own terms. Queen B can piss on her past, piss on her self esteem, piss all over her sense of security. But the one thing the Commander was not about to sour was Jack's trade.

The music screamed, blasting the air between them. Jack focused on her curse, screaming 'Siha' into the air, her voice silenced by the blasting speakers. She could feel the base in her heart, pulsing in her body as her eardrums rung. The tattoo artist screamed Siha, and gathered enough bile to match Shepard's flashing grey eyes in the mirror's reflection. The bitch stared as Jack screamed Siha into the screeching guitars and sparking drums. She screamed, staring at Shepard with one last stroke of her gun, swirls penetrating the skin as she matched the practiced style absolutely identical to the references. Every single one of the drell maidens died, sometimes only days after paying for the fucking ink job. It was a curse. The drell believed the old script tempted their gods, marking the girls for greatness before their inevitable deaths.

Let Shepard die. Let her die after she's served her purpose as Siha, just like every other 'Siha' Jack knew.

Jack turned off the tattoo machine and left Shepard half-naked on the cot. The music blasted, and Shepard winced in physical pain as Jack bumped the base high and loud. One strong fucking punch to the face. You do not fuck with Delpherra. Nuh uh, no how. You do not fuck with her. Not when she's working. She braced her palms over her ears as she spiraled up the stairs, skipping every other step to speed her exit. She rushed to the lift, punching the call button with the a quick back fist. C'mon… c'mon… c'mon….

One hand fell on Jack's shoulder, and she just turned and shot her knee straight up with intention to wound.

The impact of hard armor did not please her thigh. She immediately leaned back and glared, "STOP FUCKING SNEAKING UP ON ME MASSANI."

"YEAH?" Zaeed snarled, spit flying between leathered lips. "I WOULDN'T BE SNEAKING IF YOU'D TURN YOUR FUCKING MUSIC DOWN."

"I…. I…-" Jack panicked as the elevator's doors opened. She threw herself into the sanctuary of the lift, punching the close doors in panic. She just wanted to get the fuck off and never ever see the Normandy ever again.

The music finally stopped, the sound of a sniper shot at close range shaking the engineer deck, and denting the floor very near Zaeed's foot. Only a lunatic uses a powerful Geth sniper rifle to hit a target five feet away. Granted, the base was pretty painful and deserved its just desserts.

The doors of the lift began to close.

"Well, if you insist," The old dog hissed, pushing both arms between the doors and placing himself right next to Jack. "Happens I need to go up as well."

Jack paled. The doors closed once more, until another pair of arms jut forward, pulling back the gate to regard Jack in loathing and Zaeed in…

Well. Shepard was not at all pleased to see Massani. Especially since those mismatched eyes of his were fixed squarely on Shepard's half naked body, tattoos and all. His ugly maw twisted into an oily smile. "And to think… I thought you were wearing a push-up bra under that ugly vest of yours…"

The commander sneered. Jack's eyes flickered up to regard another shape behind the infiltrator, cloak shifting slowly to reveal Kasumi winking at Jack and Zaeed before motioning her brow to the woman's bra.

Jack froze. Zaeed nodded.

"Jack, I will escort you out," Shepard hissed, moving one foot forward as she entered the lift. The bra fell with a certain thief's expert touch, revealing the woman's breasts and the thresher maw that twined around the soft tissue.

Zaeed licked his lips and Shepard immediately jumped out of the lift before exploring a certain lack of space with a horny old toad whose idea of a pick-up line probably involved making a joke about procreating bullet proof babies. The doors closed and Jack sighed, relieved. _God bless you, Kasumi Goto. I owe you ink on the house._

"I wonder how much credits Cerberus spent on that rack of hers. Probably the most expensive pair outside Illium!" Zaeed snorted, unfolding rolls of laughter that echoed up and down the elevator shaft. The old dog's mismatched eyes dully drifted towards Jack, laughter draining from his throat."Say… What exactly does Jane mean by she'll 'escort you out'…"

The firecracker fizzled and shrugged, pursing her lips and kicking the elevator floor briefly, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Like hell you don't. You always talk, blabbering all the time about how you crashed into a couple moons or joined cults or whatever," The old mercenary suspiciously scrutinized Jack. "Why does the cat suddenly have your tongue, Jax."

The nickname sounded endearing. The kind of endearing you'd expect from a retiring shark. Though, she really didn't feel like saying anything.

The elevator's ascent was slow, allowing Massani more time to pick out some answers from the crate of bullets. He licked dry, chapped lips with a tongue, hot, fluorescent light enhancing a hard leather face. Wrinkles, scars and patches of freckles emphasized the ancient dog's age. Leaning in, Jack could smell the cigarettes, bourbon, and flammable chemicals that clung his hair and armor. "You're leaving us for good, aintcha?"

Jack looked away and nodded.

The elevator doors drew open, exposing the empty heart of the Normandy. No one was on the bridge, the eerie quiet unique to Jack's ears. Typically people were buzzing around, Joker and EDI flaring into another juvenile argument that could sometimes get to echoing off the walls, Shepard's red-headed personal assistant in a constant state of confusion - likely by knocking her head into psychology books in a vain attempt to psychologically profile the commander… But there was no one there. Just Jack and Zaeed, probably Kasumi hiding around somewhere, and EDI if you count a computer as company.

The Normandy was her home, and Shepard was bullying her out of the last sanctuary Jack loved and cared for. All of her connections were here… Jack had finally discovered who she was in this ship, and the commander was taking it away from her.

There was only one Normandy. And there will only ever be one Normandy. Her Normandy.

Zaeed walked ahead of Jack, shaking his head in ire, "Fine. But not until you smoke a durry with me."

"I don't smoke, Old Man."

"Wasn't a request," Massani clarified. "We're gonna take a nice long walk and enjoy the stale smell of piss on the streets of Omega over a durry, end of fucking discussion."

The former convict opened her mouth to protest, but not before the elevator whirred back to life, responding to a call in the engineer deck. It had to be Shepard. Kasumi much preferred finding alternative routes bridging the Normandy's many decks, rarely taking the lift. "Fine. Fine, one dermy or derby or dusty or whatever, and that's it. I just want to get the fuck away from here. Fast."

The mercenary's walk was heavy yet quick, one foot hitting the other as he flicked a zippo picked out from a utility pocket. He gingerly pulled two cigarettes from a case he kept tucked under his chest plate, over the right breast. He lit both, puffing on them as the flame caught the tobacco, red cherry ember bracing the tip of each dried poison wrapped in paper.

"Zaeed Massani. The Normandy prohibits smoking," EDI's monotonous voice spilled from a one of 'her' help stations. Jack could vaguely hear EDI also carrying on a debate with Joker about inefficient use of time. "A warning, the Normandy will turn on the emergency sprinkler system again."

"You mean you'll turn off the fucking sprinkler system again," the old dog growled between his teeth, offering the other fag to Jack. "Let off, we're leaving."

Jack rolled her eyes and collected the cigarette, following the mercenary past the airlock and onto the Afterlife's VIP docking lot. They walked together in silence, the sound of boots hitting the littered ground adding its own sound to Omega's mismatched melody. There was some satisfaction smashing glass between hard rock and shoe. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for any tell tale sign of Shepard.

"Relax," Massani hummed, biting around his cigarette as he inhaled and exhaled in short bursts. "Enjoy your durry. This old dog'll keep Jane away."

She sighed, collecting the cigarette between her middle and ring finger, preferring to hold the toxic stick while fisting her hand. She cupped it over her mouth and drank in the chemicals, sipping smoke with one long drag, filling, burning, numbing her throat with the flood of manufactured poison. Her body relaxed, the back of her neck tingled, and she felt warmth and comfort despite the surrounding circumstances. Jack took another long drag.

"And you said you didn't smoke," Zaeed smirked, matching her stride as they tread through Omega's black market bazaar.

"I said I don't smoke, not that I never smoked." The firecracker replied, drawing the smoke through her lungs and blowing out rings by puckering her lips and clicking her jaw. It was a stupid trick, but familiar and nice.

Massani nodded, and they continued to walk together. Jack studying the row of stores and questionable food stalls. Rumor had it that 60 percent of the market's food was supplied by gangs, which was to say… a lot of the meat was 'mysterious in origin'. It may just be rumor, though Jack was not keen to find out.

He snorted and gagged, drawing the air suddenly with his nostrils with the wet sound of mucus balling up in the base of his throat. He spat it out, the wad of snot and saliva hitting the wall like a bullet. Jack was surprised the thing didn't ricochet and hit one of the beggars sitting near a cigarette kiosk. "The Normandy takes for space tomorrow," Zaeed spoke with some clarity, cigarette bobbing up and down as his lips move. "I can grab the shit you left behind and hand it off to you tomorrow."

Jack regarded the circle of waxy red around the lip of her cigarette. Fucking things… She hadn't had a relapse in three months. Whatever. It's just this one time. It was a bad, bad day. Those days were over. "Don't bother. I have everything I need right here…"

"Oh yeah?" Zaeed asked. He lit another cancer stick with the still-glowing butt. Jack wasn't even half way finished with hers… the old man could out smoke a batarian factory chimney. "What about your Jessie?"

My… What…? "Uh… Old Man, I thought they cured Alzheimer's… Jessie is your rifle. I wouldn't want that outdated piece of shit." She shook her head, emphasizing a very significant point to the discussion. "At all. As in never. I wouldn't use that gun if it was a choice between punching a rock with my bare fist or just shooting it. I wouldn't choose that gu-"

"For fuck's… Jessie is a fine piece of shit, thank you. And what the fuck is Alzheimer's?" The old dog growled, shaking his head, "No, I don't give a shit. I said your Jessie. Not my Jessie. The most valuable possession you own. The shitty rifle that keeps you going. Where's your tattoo gun, Jax?"

Shit. Shit… She fucking forgot her equipment. Of course she forgot the equipment. She sighed, still staring at that cigarette, as if the thing could offer her some guidance. The stupid dinged up blue tin box she kept the machine in.. her inks, her sketchbooks, even her portfolio.

"Your durry's going out, sweetheart," The mercenary grunted, offering his zippo. Jack sighed, collected the utility and flicked it with one brush of her thumb. The flame danced across the paper, relighting the cigarette. "Don't abandon your Jessie. You give up on her, you've already lost."

Jack's lips parted as the pieces fell into place. The cigarette fell from her lips, basking in the embarrassing feeling of shame. "You know about Shepard and me…"

"The whole ship knows what she did to you on Tetlin," Zaeed growls. "Word spreads faster than an asari's legs on that ship."

She sighed, resting the crown of her head against a dimly lit wall. "… Goddammit, Kasumi," Jack hissed. The woman fixed a hard glare on a pair of batarians who were looking a little too long for her own comfort. Zaeed turned, brow raised as he regarded the men, "You two. Go fuck off. Fucking vultures… There's nothing for you here, girl. Or did you forget that you still have a bounty on that bald head of yours…"

Fuuuck… Downside to being in space - There's not a whole lot of room in empty space to hang wanted flyers. Cities and settlements on the other hand... Fuck.

The old man's eyes bore into Jack's. Massani's face was so… interesting. The artist studying how the flesh had knit itself together, creating canyons between patched pieces. The scar was beautiful. Zaeed could rattle the ship's ears off with his stories, but his face was a natural testimony to his powerful self-sustaining instinct. It was a natural tattoo, a permanent milestone. "If all of Omega knew you left Cerberus, you'd be easy pickings," Massani growled with one lip raised. The left side of his face was so damn fragmented and paralyzed, the left half of his jaw slacked as he spoke.

"Why do you care so much?" Jack growled.

The man grinned, lip raised as his cybernetic eye flickered, implying he intentionally moved his head under the light just-so to give off the effect. "Because I want a tattoo."

Of course. It always, always comes down to that. "If you want a tattoo, you can get on the wait list like everyone else. I'm already booked for the next three days. And no, I won't accept any sexual favors just so I can bump you up a day or two."

Massani rolled his eyes, rocking his head back and forth as he mocked Jack's complaint. "I bet I can convince you to give me my tattoo now."

"Yeah. Right old man. Sure, let's play out this fantasy… If you can't convince me, I will tattoo a pin-up of Mordin on your ass."

Zaeed's yellowed teeth grit around the cigarette, gnawing the cotton tip as he carefully considered, "And if I can convince you, you stay on the Normandy."

Jack just laughed. She just laughed right there, in his face. She laughed so hard, she blew the cigarette's cherry off the tip, leaving Zaeed unamused and durry-less. "This.. This is... Oh man, alright. Fine. Done is done. I cannot wait to tattoo Mordin on your ass. This.. will be gold.."

The old dog nodded, drew his zippo, and relit the stub of a cigarette. He drew in his breath, "I will help you get even with Shepard."

Jack stared. She scrutinized him, the caverns in his face, the patterns that framed half his head in rich detail. Jack wondered how rough skinned the mercenary was under layers of armor and how old tattoos reformed post injury. "She's impenetrable. She'll kill me."

The mercenary smiled, "Not if you play her at her own game. As far as I stand, she's just picking at you. She already hit you hard at that fucking shithole of a lab. She can't do more, can she?"

The artist paled, "She finds a way."

"Nah.." Zaeed rolled, lighting his third cigarette. "Jane thinks she's got you all figured out… You're a smart girl, Jax. Prove her wrong."

"And how the fuck do you expect me to do that?" Jack hissed, Shepard's shadow still looming over her.

The mercenary puffed and grinned, "Give her a black eye. Figuratively speaking."

Jack stopped, and blushed in yet another stroke of astonishing embarrassment. Of course.

"You know her better than anyone here, sweet heart. You're the one whose seen her naked and inked her. Even a krogan has a weak point, despite their fucking redundant systems. You need to find her Jessie and exploit it. People like us always have a Jessie. It keeps us from losing hope."

She smiled. She just… a second air-filled her lungs, gagging on the fumes of shit and piss. Bless Omega, putrid, rancid city that it was… At least it was honest about itself. "Okay, old man. So you've convinced me to stay on the Normandy... BUT... You still haven't convinced me to give you a tattoo."

"I want a tattoo of Shepard's saucy body..." Zaeed started, patting his chest. "Right above my heart."

Jack laughed.

She had to hand it to the old dog. He was very convincing.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note::<strong>

I think its safe to say that Jack caved and gave Zaeed the sexiest Shepard tattoo she could muster.

This is turning into Mean Girls.

If you'd like a more layered P.O.V. to this chapter, then I recommend you read the other fic 'What the Water Gives Me' - It explains the hows and whys of Shepard's tattoo, if you are looking for that extra nuance.


	13. The Perfect Stranger

_I can't believe I almost forgot Morinth..._

**PATCHWORK GIRL**

**THE PERFECT STRANGER**  
><strong>Morinth's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

* * *

><p>She could feel the music pulse deep inside her chest, bass blasting her body back with each powerful punch. The waves beat against her, drum spiraling into lifts and draws, beats quickened by the DJ's deft hand. Jack thrashed against the tempo, fighting for speed as her muscles thrust and contracted, gliding across the dance room and moving with violent grace. She controlled the floor, sliding around multiple parties and weaving between lovers without breaking tension.<p>

Jack loved dancing.

"You having a good time?" Kasumi blinked beside her, raising a bottle of liquor and a happy little wink.

The woman laughed, kicking her leg out into a spin and offering a thoughtful grin at the thief, collecting the drink and downing it greedily. "Kas, I'm having the best time of my fucking _life_ right now."

Kasumi smiled, small bow lips perked into that sunny grin. "Anything for a friend."

The word hit Jack. Hard, heavy. Then a strange thing happened. A feeling bloomed inside her. She felt the warmth root from her heart, growing and branching out to her fingertips.

Happiness tasted different. It tasted like a warm liquor. It intoxicated Jack, but not with properties of denial, oh no. Jack wasn't running away. She had no reason to. For the first time in her life, Jack felt safe, glimpsing hope and love. She acknowledged this feeling by rolling her eyes and taking a long swallow of whiskey. "I can't believe you figured out a way to get past the V.I.P.'s guards," Jack mentioned, taking the snoopy thief by the arm and dragging her to a booth.

Kasumi winked, licking her lips as amber eyes sparkled from behind her cowl. "It wasn't hard, really. They should really stop using a spoken password system, especially since cloaking devices run so damn cheaply." The thief paused, then weaved a correcting hand in the air. "Well… some cloaking devices do. Not everyone on Omega has access to leading omnitool prototypes."

Ah yes. The current subject of Kasumi's all-consuming love and adoration. Jack sighed, politely watching the thief as she repeated the conversation rehearsed three times over the past several hours. She spill the information, running down the numbers and listing the great leaps, bounds, improvements, and brilliant design artfully crafted from Dr. Mordin Solus's tool bench. He named the powerful omnitool after one of his favorite musicals. The Phantom was the finest example of espionage technology to date, combining confidential STG omnitool design with a bit of human inspired innovation.

"It's a shame. This beautiful baby now belongs to Cerberus - they got the whole damn recipe because of that stupid AI's programmed loyalty. I've tried so hard to hack into her system. EDI is FLOODED with firewalls and traps. Its minesweeper, except there's only one safe square in the entire game." Kasumi shook her head, emphasizing distaste. "Later, I plan to try hacking her systems again when we travel in dark space. The Phantom might be able to do it. I mean, just look at this.. Over two million programming languages with little to no lag between decryptions. Over two million…"

Jack just kept staring at the purple dot on Kasumi's lip, moving up and down before politely following her eyes. Kasumi was not gonna stop talking. So Jack continued to nod where it felt right and slipped into daydreams, listening to the music and tensing muscles between beats.

The Afterlife's V.I.P. room astounded the senses. DJs rotated their sets. They split and stretched different sounds from across the galaxy. The DJs were artists in their own right, preferring an edgy international mix. The company was fetching, the people who thrived in this room were many of Aria's favorites and their friends. It was nice to hang out with fellow suicidals. It felt like a goodbye party to everyone and everything. A goodbye and a good luck party. In six hours, she'll board the Normandy and say goodbye to Omega for what maybe the last time.

A couple of hours ago, Jack was in her room picking through her sketchbook, searching for any clues regarding her observations of Shepard. She went through the grained stock, ripping out each page inked with notes or minute studies of the commander's expression. She had been studying Foucault for nearly four sol months, tracing and tracing backwards, sifting and circling keys. Walt Whitman, Tali's headdress, twin tusks, meditation, flashing teeth, fulfilled prophecies, life altering formulas… Even Lady Noh, in her distant past.

Silent, quiet Lady Noh. Untouched and unknown for years. She was a notorious serial killer in Japan who primarily targeted influential, intelligent men. Politicians, CEOs, and even gangsters. She targeted Tokyo for only a year, leaving a string of antique masks that marked her kill. Several copycats followed after her lead, though Kasumi was able to trace them all back to emulators, not the real deal. The bizarre crimes escalated until, one day, she suddenly disappeared. Some speculated Lady Noh was killed by a citizen vigilante. Though, a more likely suggestion was that she had escaped the Sol system and was still at large. No similar murders were ever repeated on Earth.

Kasumi pointed out the date Shepard had enlisted in the Alliance - only four months shy of Lady Noh's disappearance.

It wasn't a coincidence. Shepard's background was a series of fabricated sources. No accurate school records, no exact work records, and to make matters worse, Jane had one of the most common Anglo-European names among humans, making it even more difficult for Kasumi to find good information. But it was a good lead.

Shepard was Lady Noh. But she wasn't Lady Noh anymore. Still, Lady Noh had lived at one point and she had purpose behind her killings, information that could lead to Shepard's weakness. Jack just had to find her Achilles heel and expose it.

And so she continued to paste each clue over the walls and beams. A weakness. A breaking point. It was there. The artist tacked and taped the notes and drawings across the surfaces of her bedroom, until one of the walls emulated a cascade of paper. That's when Kasumi interrupted.

"Jack… This…" The thief was completely awestruck, hand shaking.

"I know. It's a mess," Jack growled, crossing her arms in frustration.

Kasumi shook her head and sighed. "No. I mean. You are going in the right direction. The idea is there, it just needs.."

Jack furrowed her brow. "Kasumi. I'm not 'creating'."

"Oh, thank god… I mean." Kasumi cleared her throat. "Of course not. Your medium isn't uh… installations."

Jack smirked, "I once installed a ship into a moon. But regardless, you got any more leads?"

Kasumi frowned, "Yes well… I have some WONDERFUL news and… a bit of bad news."

The bad news, it turned out, was that EDI successfully installed the Reaper designed 'Identity Friend/Foe' device (AKA The Reaper IFF), meaning the Omega 4 Relay mission was finally entering the last stages of preparation.

The good news was that Kasumi had finagled her way into the galaxy's hottest dance club.

And so there they were. Just two bad bitches party crashing among the sexiest people in Omega, all thanks to the thief's brand spanking new, upgraded Polaris.

"Kassa Fabrication's update to the already outstanding Polaris. Named it Miyadh, quarian equivalent of the north star. Something about rebranding their omni tools to compete with the galactic market. And… now you are staring blankly at me. Jack? Jack…? Hellooo"

A blur of hand washed across Jack's field of vision, hooking Jack's attention and pulling her out of the drowning daydream. "Sorry, Kas. Just…" Jack kicked her foot out with a grimace, "Thanks for being so fucking cool." And very, very talkative.

Kasumi smiled warmly, patting Jack on the hand and leaning in. "What can I say? I enjoy the company of artists. We always seem to get along. You are my favorite living one, currently."

Jack grinned, "Shucks."

The thief smiled, pressing her elbow to the table. She drew her cowl back, revealing her simple face. The costume legitimized Kasumi's greatest asset, her sense of mystery and allure. Well, mystery and allure to those who didn't live with her. Kasumi was the biggest gossip Jack had ever met.

"I owe a lot to you, Kasumi," Jack sighed, grabbing one of those bottles and downing it with a heavy swallow. Ryncol is in order later. "And not just because you stood up for me. I mean to say that I've never felt so… belonged. You make me better."

The thief smiled, shifting the ordinary freckles that spotted her face. Her hair cut was short and untrendy, a flat cut with no bangs and no distinctions. Perfectly anonymous. "And this is the part where we find some gentlemen to entertain us. I'll scope the place out for a little, you stay here and drink up."

Jack laughed, "Find me a dude with a great ass. I'm okay with drell too!"

"A scale licker eh?" Kasumi smiled with her eyes before pulling her cowl over her head and disappearing into thin sight, "That sounds like fun."

Nights like these, Jack was thankful the shitty Cerberus experiments improved her tolerance for fucked up. She'd be ready, on her feet just an hour before the drill and keep the smell on her teeth to rub it in Shepard's face. Level playing field.

"Why are you here?"

Jack snapped out of the daydream, brown eyes gauging the subject of her imagined future. Shepard's dirty old leather vest and thick hide pants looked garish in a club of sleek suits and revealing dresses. Cold gray eyes glared behind twisted pieces of brown hair, trained directly on Jack's line of sight. "Why. Are. You. Here." Shepard repeated, maintaining a poisoned poise.

"I don't see how that is any business of yours," Jack shrugged, sinking back into her chair, cradling a bottle of whiskey.

Shepard's eyes narrowed, the stare down escalating tension. "Leave the VIP Room."

Jack took one good long swig, draining the whiskey right in front of the commander. She ran one arm across her lips, smearing liquor and lipstick in a single, artful stroke.

"No."

The commander's eyes widened, jaw so tensed, Jack half wondered if her teeth would shatter in her mouth. "That. Was. An. Order," Shepard stated with all the chill of liquid nitrogen.

"No." Jack repeated, finding courage with another good strong swig of her whiskey. This was her night. This maybe Jack's last night. She was not going to let Shepard ruin that too. "Leave. Me. Be., Bitch."

Shepard stepped backward. An expression swept across her face, something that Jack had never expected from the cruel woman. She appeared genuinely nervous. The fleeting expression passed before it was quickly dismissed. "Alright. Fine. Plan B it is."

"Wait, wha-? Plan what? What is Plan B? What are you planning…?!" Jack inquired. Shepard proceeded to answer Jack's question the way she always answered questions. She turned around and walked away.

No. Fuck her no… She was not going to freak her out with Plan B or Plan C or Plan Whatever-The-Fuck. This was her night. This was her fucking night and she wanted nothing to do with any of that bullshit. She wasn't going to let the bitch play with her, predict her, manipulate her. She refused to be her little puppet, nor was Jack going to run away. This was her night, her club, her time, her farewell to the old life that molded her, and her house-warming for the new life she created. Shepard would not ruin it for her. Not this time.

Jack stood up and drifted into the dance circle, weaving her arm through the loose network of friends, acquaintances, and strangers. She drifted between them all, dancing around their patterns and manipulating the floor with her body. Jack was an artist, her body a brush, the crowd her canvas. And so Jack painted.

She moved fluidly, kicking her feet and devouring space. She emulated Tali's dance, recalling wind's fluidity where none existed on Omega. She stabbed the air with her foot, moving elongated and on her toes, splitting the quarian dance with more popular Thessian dance styles. She spun on one foot, pushing in and out. Eventually several of the club goers whooped and hollered, circling the talent as Jack moved. She measured their bodies with her eyes, regarding mixed cross-cultural expressions that drifted across potential competitors and partners.

A confident drell stepped forward, decorative yellow veil draped across his face. His clothes were long and sleek, thin and transparent, appearing ghost like with a black silhouette peaking under the ephemeral fabric. He rotated his hips, drawing one leg across the other in a stiff, exaggerated move. Chrome paint shellacked the dancer's nails and lips, scales shimmering under pulsating, changing lights. He drew his head back and moved, tracing steps in practiced, brilliant patterns. Slow and sensual, snaking around dance circle until meeting Jack. The drell proceeded to turn, leaning backwards until his shoulders nearly touched Jack's breasts, fused middle digits snapping with a double-click. Jack smiled.

Jack loved the sound of drell fingers when they snapped. It wasn't just a single snap, oh no. It was a 1-2 snap, of ring and middle finger sliding across a dry thumb into the palm of scaled hands. It was playful and inviting.

Accepting the fellow dancer's invitation, Jack pulsed her hand once or twice above her head before circling her partner. They moved across the polished floor amidst the sounds of an encouraging audience, synthesizers and steady tempo guiding the improvised performance. Jack, recalling Tali's dance, appropriated certain elements that blended with Khathaal, a modified belly dancing school taught traditionally by drell. Jack remembered the wild parties with the Lost Girls once upon a time ago and smiled.

"Khathaal Saeh," the drell shouted, rasped voice barely lifting above the bellowing beats and enthusiastic club goers.

Jack blinked and smiled, surprise expression melting into familiarity, "Khathaal dra'fal Saeh."

_Live well._

_Live without regret._

He wrapped his arms around Jack and pressed his lips across hers. She returned the stranger's kiss, smiling. _Kasumi, you delightful little fox._ If they got through the Omega 4-Relay in once piece, Jack owed her buddy big time.

The hallucinations kicked in immediately, tasting cotton candy and sugar-coating the alien's mouth. Jack's mind altered. A warmth spread from her brain and branched across the trunk of her spine. Then, a cascade of preeminent experiences throttled her. Some tragic, some happy, all profound. Her first kiss with a fellow slave. The first time she smelled rain. The first time she looked back on a planet from a shuttle window. The first tattoo. The first time she tattooed. Jack deepened her kiss, fingertips caressing the drell as she sank deeper into the ambrosiac hallucinations.

The walls that divided her memory into categories shattered, morphing Jack's experiences into a reflection. It was like seeing movies of her dreams, only those dreams were real. The chemical effect created a temporary dialogue with all the lobes of her brain. Jack brain blossomed. No wonder most (if not all) drell were so spiritually sincere. Their eidetic memories allowed them to reach back in time and gauge their life's trajectory. The high of total recollection was overwhelming, to the point of religious ecstasy.

Jack opened her eyes, regarding a slender, elegant asari step out from the circle and towards the drell. Grinning, Jack removed herself from her partner with a candy red smile, bequeathing her stage to the fresh contender. The song changed, reflecting the asari's movements as she pushed the drell back by thrusting her right hip violently in his direction, her face always bracing his. The DJ must've been watching, record blending into a slow, seductive hunting atmosphere. Her curiosity piqued, eyes fixed on the back of the blue foreigner's head as she tried to make out any discerning facial features. The asari appeared to ignore Jack, attention trained on her former dance companion.

The asari moved in a way that was both unfamiliar and unique. Her legs rooted the ground, isolating her lower and upper torso as they seemed to sway with minds of their own. Then, she'd strike - one foot gingerly touching the floor as her entire leg shot out closer like a spear.

The drell tried to keep up, but her hypnotic movements threw off his concentration, stunning Jack. Sure, Jack didn't recognize the asari's dance moves. They had centuries of experience over Jack's head. But, drell were gifted with photographic memories. The experience of solipsism wasn't a temporary high, it was fundamental drell biology. And Jack could tell, just by reading the male's body language, that he did not know how to predict the asari's silent yet expressive conversation. He did not understand her, and so he politely shrugged and melted back into the circled crowd, sacrificing the space.

The music maintained that violent undertone, unchanged as it trained on the asari. She turned, rich blue eyes trained on Jack, barely brushing against her. The former convict's heart skipped a beat, choking down shock as she recognized the stranger.

Samara?

Jack wisely decided not to point out to the random asari that she looked exactly like another asari. Sure, this stranger was a spitting image of the Samara, but everything about the asari's body language was clearly not like the Justicar's.

So instead of acting like a fool, The ex-convict half smiled and accepted her new dance partner. Jack borrowed the asari's response, violently stabbing her foot in her direction and deftly avoiding the challenger's biting steps. The asari was hunting her, though Jack proved to be difficult prey - redirecting each swipe, borrowing choreography, and blending it into an exotic concoction of Tali's private ballet, the asari's deathly waltz, and the sum of Jack's past performances.

The music changed, slipping from fight to shared passion. Human guitars flared, quarian wind instruments flooded synthesizers. The music's dark rhythms was a cross cultural reference to violence. And so they fought, their bodies closing in. The asari's leg swept the air, Jack neatly dodging it as she turned her heel out and followed the twist by swiping the stranger's feet. Anticipating the move, she stepped around and gingerly touched Jack's back, dipping her backwards. Blue moonstone eyes cemented Jack's gaze, large eyes framed by smooth cerulean skin dappled by darker freckles.

It was freakish how much this stranger looked like her friend.

The asari smiled, guiding Jack back to her feet and drawing closer to her form. She bent closer, warm, sweet breath washing over Jack's earlobe and down her jaw. "You are the most fascinating person I've met."

"Uh.." Jack turned her lips, not entirely sure how to respond. ".. Thanks?"

Pathetic, really.

"My name is Morinth," the dancer continued, the sweet smell of her warm breath cascading over her skin. If she didn't look exactly like Samara, Jack might be aroused. "This is your first time here. I would have noticed you earlier if it wasn't. I have a private booth, join me for drinks?"

"Sure," Jack blurted out, lacking all the suave of seduction out of an awkward obligation. The woman felt guilty for even thinking this total stranger looked just like another person. Might as well wear an asari slurring shirt stating how they all look exactly alike. And so, like any guilty party, Jack accepted the invitation. She could use more drinks.

"Excellent," A slender hand drew across Jack's calloused fingers, soft supple skin chilled to the touch. Her grasp was cold but firm. Morinth drew Jack through the circled crowd, weaving through clusters of dancers and talkers before reaching an intimate alcove nestled into a corner. This was Morinth's private space.

Woman must have had some hot connections or money to burn if Afterlife's V.I.P. club handed her own damn booth. She was important to Omega, or important to someone powerful who lived here. Jack suspected Morinth was a companion to the wealthy, the kind paid high prices for her time, sex at her own discretion.

Jack grinned devilishly. Well thank god Shepard gave her all that money. She wouldn't mind burning it while she still had breath to spend it.

"I love it here," Morinth hushed, sitting opposite of her company in the plush, polished leather seats. "I sit here and I am able to see life and what it ultimately is… rich and destructive."

The artist narrowed her eyes, one boot planting into the plush couch as she regarded the asari's alluring appearance. Her lips curved into a bow, voice lifting in thoughtful intellect as she spoke to Jack. Jack shook her head, "Yeah." The woman sighed. "Breaks my heart."

Morinth blinked, leaning in with brows stitched. She appeared confused by little miss Punk Girl's response. From a purely surface point of view, Jack looked very much like the type to revel in hedonism. Peel back the layers, and the butterfly emerges. "It makes no sense. Here we are, at the best fucking club in the entire universe. We're here because fuck… we want to feel alive. The dancing, the drinking, scale licking, red sand, sex, violence… We come here to do all that. Just so that we can forget we're dying."

The asari's brow furrowed further, uncertain by Jack's darker tone. "Dying. All the time. Doesn't matter who you are, you are dying. You will die. And so we do what we can to make our lives as rich and full as possible. So we just overwhelm ourselves with life, to forget we are dying."

Morinth's lips pursed, listening intently to the woman's delivery before posing a question. "If we are dying, why not enjoy every moment as if it's our last? Isn't it a crime to cage yourself from experiences?"

Jack nodded, collecting her drink and swallowing it with a heady swig. She needed a bottle. So, living her day as if it was her last, Jack proceeded to swipe a tear drop crystal container holding serrice ice brandy. If Morinth wanted her company, fine. If Morinth wanted payment for accompanying her, fine. This was Jack's night, and she wanted to talk to someone engaging, paid or not. "I can't answer that. All I know is this - you see life as rich and destructive… But really, what I see here, at this club, are a bunch of strangers in paradise. They're all happy because they're still alive, and that's good enough to celebrate."

A smile flashed across Morinth's eyes, sparkling and lips curved such. Jack felt both appreciated and valued. "You and I share opposite world views," the asari admitted. "But… Oddly enough, I find myself respecting yours."

The artist shrugged. "You best stop respecting and start drinking."

Morinth smiled, tapping her glass in cheers, "To strangers in paradise."

Jack relished the sweet liquor, the taste of raw vanilla enhanced by the drell hallucinations. No wonder she was getting so unnecessarily philosophical. She was like Thane in Jack clothing.

"Pardon me, but I never got your name," Morinth stated, sipping the drink delicately with blue eyes trained on Jack's face.

The biotic rolled her shoulders and shrugged. "Jack."

"Just 'Jack'," the asari teased, chewing on her straw before drinking her cocktail. The tonic water glowed blue under the black light, color pulsing between slender fingers.

"Jack. Short for 'Jack of All Trades,'" The human smiled, enjoying her company.

"Is that so…?" Morinth hummed, crossing one leg over the other - shined black leather revealing the curve of the woman's thigh under something resembling latex. "What are your trades exactly, Jack?"

Well, there's being a runaway human weapon prototype, most powerful biotic human in the galaxy, one of 11 specialists handpicked by Cerberus to follow a psychotic savant resurrected from a two-year old charred rock of meat, a smuggler, former slave, former gang member, former gang leader, former cultist… "Only got one trade," Jack admitted, thumbing the bottle of brandy. "Art."

"You're an artist…" Morinth cooed, circling her finger around the mouth of her drink. "What's your medium?"

Jack thought about that. Long and hard. Really thought about that. The easy answer was skin and a tattoo machine, but that felt like an insult to the greater orchestration of her work. She also used chalk, paper, water colors, paints… She was also an excellent dancer and a sharp dresser. Her feelings burst with countless raw experiences, whether she was tattooing someone, painting, drawing, dancing, fighting, or whatever. It was there and it is what gave her meaning.

"I guess you could say my medium is life itself," Jack answered vaguely, sipping her drink and regarding her company with a confused expression, "Life makes for an excellent teacher."

Samar-… err.. Morinth smiled, a warm one that hinted at connection. "So you're an art teacher."

Jack shook her head, "I don't know shit. I'm hardly a teacher."

Morinth laughed, blue eyes sparkling, framed by that beautiful and awkwardly familiar looking face. She breathed sensuality, sex, and inspiration… but Jack was so turned off, simply because she looked way too much like Samara, who she did see as a surrogate mother. "The best teachers are the ones who are honest about not knowing shit."

The ex-convict grinned, and downed another heavy drink with a wink. It had to start taking effect soon. A night with an asari coupled with the long-lasting hallucinations would be nice as a last hurrah before dying. Jack wouldn't mind ending shore leave with a life altering psychedelic experience.

"Tell me… what's so attractive about life?" Morinth inquired.

Jack sighed, scratching the back of her neck as she really contemplated the question. The drell hallucinations refused to reside, colors and noises amplified as her mind dived backward into perfect recollection. Jack was high as a kite. "Because there is so much more I can learn from it. And more I want to learn from others. What's not attractive about life? There is so much more we can learn from it, so much more we can learn from the vast infinity of life."

The asari nodded, entranced by the artist's words. Finally, she spoke, her honeyed voice accentuated by whisper. "I like you, Jack."

She sighed, head languidly draped over a shoulder as she watched Jack with admiration. "I don't often like people. Why is it that I like you?"

"Honestly? I don't know," Jack shrugged. "I don't understand why anyone likes me. I'm not exactly 'personable.'"

Morinth smiled, cocking her head as she regarded the woman's honesty. "I'll admit. You intrigue me. I've never met anyone like you before."

The ex-convict almost blushed, until her eyes drifted across the room and fell on a familiar silhouette wearing an ugly blood stained varren-leather vest. Shepard stood some distance away, grey gaze glinting as bodies moved and rotated around her. Of course Shepard was there. She must have always been there, watching with those cold chips of grey.

Jack rolled her eyes. "I've met too many crazies in my short life to believe I'm your first. Psychos are a dime a dozen these days."

"You're crazy… but a good crazy. " Morinth's nose wrinkled. "You are evidently a very good person who just happens to have some unorthodox ideas. The few who matter would call you rare."

Jack glanced over the asari's shoulder, back to the club's bar. Shepard did not move. She stood there, watching Jack with patient precision.

The commander was on the hunt.

"A rare psycho among psychos. Cheers to that," Jack grunted, swallowing the liquor in another gulp. The alcohol finally took effect, warming her mind enhancing the recollections and hallucinations of her past. Relaxed clarity.

Morinth coyly smiled. She smelled like raw vanilla and sex, arousing Jack's curiosity. She was a terror of beauty. "I don't believe you are psychotic Jack."

White teeth shined around Morinth's straw, absently chewing the tip of it, "But perhaps you find yourself attracted to psychotic people."

"Nope," Jack corrected, sparing one quick glance in Shepard's direction. "I'm pretty sure I don't find them very attractive."

The asari licked her upper lip, drawing closer to Jack. Blue eyes swallowed Jack whole, intense and overpowering. Morinth was an extraordinary beauty, an aesthetic enhanced by her poise and curiosity. She studied Jack with great intimacy and admiration, as if she and only she warranted all the asari's favor. Soft hands touched Jack's arms, sending a trail of goose bumps up the biotic's arm. "Your tattoos are beautiful. Who designed them?"

"I did," Jack replied. It was nice to look at someone full in the eyes without avoiding eye contact. Easier to do it when Jack realized tonight maybe her last to spend in the company of a stranger. "They are all mine."

"Every single one?" Morinth hushed.

"Yes," Jack replied. "Every one of them."

The asari's mouth opened than closed, eyes twitching from the fullness of Jack's face to the elaborate ink decorating every square inch of her body. Her hands traced the eight faces emerging from blue and green ink, surfacing across the heavier details of her sleeve. "These all look like you… Are these self portraits?"

The convict shook her head, "No, but they are portraits of my first gang. We called ourselves The Lost Girls. The gang was mostly made up of drell, and I was the rare exception. So, one day, while I'm drawing on my sketch pad, one of the girls asked me to do her portrait. As a joke, I pencilled what I'd guess she'd look like if she were a human. But it wasn't a joke to her. She was deeply fascinated and touched. So, the other girls asked me to do their portraits posing as humans. So I did. As the year passed, mistakes on the job happened and one by one, The Lost Girls died. But their story lives on…" Jack tapped her arm. "Right here."

Licking her lips, Morinth continued to study the rich, thick patterns that composed Jack. "Are all your tattoos gang related?"

"Some. Not all."

"Are you addicted to the pain?" Her company inquired, eyes trained on the bones and compass etched above her breasts. "Is that why you have so many?"

"I'm not addicted, but…" Jack sighed, knitting her fingers around the bottle's neck, "Some people go to church, I tattoo. At the end of the day, whether you pray or get inked, you come out a different person with a better understanding of yourself.

The biotic rolled her eyes, one hand reaching back to scratch bristles freshly growing from the crown of her head. "I'm still trying to figure me out. Tattoos help."

Morinth studied Jack's skin with dark cerulean eyes. Yellow and brown rings orbited her pupils, specks of gold dotting the pools of ombre blue, framed by an indigo halo. When Morinth's eyes moved, the ex-convict could see different colors - silver, grey, yellows, even reds. The asari had remarkable eyes.

"Have you designed for others?" Morinth asked, admiration and appreciation aglow over attractive features.

Another wave of the drell-saliva trip overpowered Jack, triggered by Morinth's question. The walls of her mind fell apart. The biotic experienced the full throttle of her recent past all at once. Each tattoo machine she used, each section of skin with different textures, colors, patterns, and age damage. Jack recalled scales, exoskeletons smooth as petrified wood, or tanned flesh. Sometimes a machine wasn't used. Sometimes Jack used her turian paints. Sometimes just a needle she bartered from a prisoner. Sometimes her hands.

Jack tattooed strangers, dead friends, living friends, gang members, enemies. She tattooed as a favor, as a memoir, as a way to make a living. She tattooed for pleasure. She defined the flesh of others with a machine and a small fee. And in the haze of inks, needles, and designs, sometimes… sometimes her clients defined her.

One, and only one client daunted, distressed, and disturbed her. The stranger cast a shadow over her rich and voluminous past, overpowering Jack's memories. Lady Noh. Siha. Shen. Yes-Ma'am-Commander-Ma'am. Urdnot Shepard. Jane. Foucault.

Jack could see cycles of Shepard over and over again. The commander had become a pattern or a repetition. She was different parts of the same quilt. She was a mother, a drinking buddy, an enemy, a friend in mourning, a serial killer, a psycho bitch, an infiltrator, a nutcase… Shepard encompassed it all. Every one of her tattoos were there. Each memory captured with ink across her body. And Jack alone recognized and understood what each tattoo represented. Except… Something jarred her. Something was out-of-place...

Jack was staring at a hundred different Shepards from the past, each an echo or a paler emulation of the real deal. She saw Shepard nude, not nude. Shepard without tattoos, Shepard with all of them. Bruised Shepard, bleeding Shepard, bare naked Shepard. The tattoos blinked in and out of Jack's vision, visible only during states of undress, hidden always behind clothes or armor.

All but one.

There was one patch Jack did not recognize.

That one flourish featured prominently for the whole fucking world to see.

The face paint.

The face paint was always there.

Jack never thought much of it on Tuchanka, when Shepard first advertised the fresh cobalt blues across her nose and cheeks. Considering the commander's rebellious reputation, the artist always assumed Shepard painted her face to annoy or irritate the native krogan clans.

The hallucinations delivered a different insight, expanding the biotic's guess-work and applying deduction to renewed observation. Yes, the face paint was always there. And so was the artist.

The face paint was always there. And so was Garrus Vakarian.

He was Shepard's 'Jessie.'

"I remember every tattoo," Jack sighed, smiling as flooding revelations receded. She raised her eyes to steal a winning smile in present-Shepard's direction. Disappointment replaced a vanished Commander.

_Whatever. Fine. Let her hunt. Let the tiger-bitch prowl. She can't hurt me anymore. Not any fucking more._

"I remember every single one."

The asari smiled, mouth curled into a seductive perk. The questions gingerly slipped from her tongue, tasting each word before delivery. "Have you tattooed asari?"

"Of course," she answered simply, waiting for the obvious question to follow.

Morinth chewed on her lower lip before leaning in, breasts brushing the table's surface. "Would you tattoo me?"

"I'd be a fool not to," Jack answered with a curt nod. "But I leave Omega in the morning, so…"

The asari smiled. "Then its settled. A tattoo at my apartment. Tonight."

_Tonight._ She sighed. _My last night._

And why not? Why the fuck not?

"What do you want?" Jack asked.

Morinth hummed, tapping cheek with a stray finger as she considered the question, "Whatever I inspire in you."

Jack nodded, grinning mischievously.. "And what do I get in return?"

Her company laughed, voice sweet bells adding accent to the ambiance of dancers, music, and conversation, "What, and spoil the surprise?"

Smirking, the tattoo artist raised her bottle of serrice ice brandy and winked with one long swallow, "Alright, but first… one last dance before we leave."

"One last dance for you it is," Morinth tantalizingly agreed, slipping out of the booth and offering a smooth hand bedecked with white gold rings and bracelets. Jack nonchalantly gathered her nearly-empty bottle and accepted Morinth's hand, calloused fingers sandpaper against the asari's soft, inviting flesh.

Together, they shared one last dance.

* * *

><p>Jack never knew posh flats actually existed above the raw poverty on Omega. Upon entering Morinth's lush studio, the tattoo artist wondered what the hell she did for a living to call for so much cash. Maybe Morinth was one of Aria T'Loak's daughters or maybe she was a high rolling gun moll. Whatever she did or whoever she was, Morinth's worth bulged.<p>

A view of Omega's polluted, unsavory landscape peeked through Morinth's window. Morinth's home served as a peaceful sanctuary. The apartment was an alcove from the violence and hopelessness outside.

The flat was immaculate. Even the floor's grooming met impeccable standards. The smell of raw vanilla, caramel, chocolate, and sex clung to the warm air, adding ambiance.

Jack delicately placed her turian ink set on the coffee table and prepared her work space. She felt like one big black stain in the center of a pristine white sheet. The space's perfection reminded her of Miranda, everything so orderly and organized. It lacked that little hint of chaos the psychotic biotic prefered.

Morinth stretched out on the couch like an overgrown cat, peeking over Jack's shoulder as she watched the woman work. "Do you feel safe here?" She purred, lengthening herself over the leather.

Eh? The woman frowned, rolling her shoulders as she considered the question. "I never feel safe. Prison'll do that to you, so don't take it personally."

"You've been to prison?" The asari drawled, one hand stroking the couch's arm. "My goodness.. You _have _done everything, haven't you?"

Jack shrugged, sorting the colorful jars of ink in a spectrum across the table. She collected her favored calligraphy brush, nibbling on the tip with her teeth - teeth trimming stray hairs.

"Would you like me to undress?" Morinth inquired seductively, wicked blue eyes twinkling under the artificial light flooding from outside her window.

Opening a vial of silver ink, the painter dipped the tip of her brush into the jar. She firmly swirled it with the flick of her wrist, liquid chrome marinating brush bristles. "Not necessary. I'm going to paint your face."

Jack could see the asari's reflection off the milky silver ink, regarding the beautiful alien's cool smile. She sat beside Morinth, crossing one leg over the other in half lotus. Balancing the ink vial on her lap, Jack gently pinched the asari's cheek and positioned her face. Her smile remained, purple lips curved to a pleasant grin. Jack studied the asari's face from close proximity, the arch of her high cheek bones, the powerful square jaw accentuating the perfect symmetry of her face. Jack's fingers caressed the blue skin, meeting the stiff ridged tentacles crowning Morinth's head.

"Tell me Jack," Morinth whispered, her voice reaching deeper registers. "How do I inspire you?"

Brown eyes twitched back and forth, swallowed by the blue ombre of Morinth's eyes. Jack swallowed before stroking the brush across the blue expanse of asari flesh, liquid silver trailing across the bridge of her nose and arching under her eyes.

"I don't know…" Jack answered truthfully, painting between her own heartbeats - hand slow and steady as it traversed Morinth's profile. "I haven't the faintest clue who you are. You are a beautiful stranger."

"Am I?" The asari's eyes sparkled, pleased by Jack's response. Nodding, the biotic continued to paint, guided by an impulse to emulate the night's revelations.

Jack's brush moved from the wings of Morinth's nostrils then up, two parallel lines meeting the river of silver that crossed over the bridge of Morinth's nose and under her eyes. She was copying Shepard's face tattoo. Her mind was elsewhere, hoping the art would answer her last question - Why Garrus? What did he know? What was he to Shepard? And if he wasn't anything, why the face paint? It was a powerful proclamation from the otherwise enigmatic commander. It claimed a variety of bold and nuanced messages, twisted into a riddle that rattled Jack's head numb.

But Morinth wasn't Shepard - the polar opposite, actually. The asari was beautiful, warm, curious, thoughtful, and above all - Morinth made Jack feel welcomed. It would be hard to leave the asari's nest, it was a haven away from the terror of Foucault's bullying.

Narrowing her eyes, she changed direction. Milky chrome framed Morinth's face above her nose. Jack painted a river of silver above, over, and under Morinth's eyes. "Close your eyes please," Jack requested.

The asari complied, gaze lingering before shutting her eyes. The artist carefully dabbed Morinth's eyelids with paint, a bar of silver ink veiling the azure face. She leaned in, gently blowing the liquid dry. "Would you like to go check it out in the mirror?" Jack offered, cleaning the brush with a bottle of soapy solution and an old rag. The hostess smiled, shifting her weight closer to Jack. One hip brushed over the artist's thigh, slender blue fingers gingerly pinching Jack's chin.

"What do you see?" Morinth asked, lips bowed into a sweet, sensual smile. "What do I inspire?"

What does the asari inspire..? "I… Don't know." Jack's answer was so hallow and stupid, lacking the quality she would've vastly preferred. "Honestly? I can't get a read on you at all. You are the perfect stranger."

"Do you want to know me?" Morinth inquired further, fingers inching to the nape of Jack's neck.

The woman grimaced. Sure, Morinth was incredibly attractive… and yes, a one night stand with an asari would be the perfect end to a perfect night. But… "I'm sorry," Jack groaned. "I… ugh. I can't."

The hostess blinked, legitimately surprised. "Wait… what?"

God, this was awkward. But no amount of alcohol, drugs, or drell related hallucinations could distract Jack long enough to enjoy having sex with a Samara Look-A-Like. It was a buzz kill to the extreme. Even the silver mask wasn't enough to deter just how fucking much Morinth looked like the Justicar.

"I know, I just… It's not you, It's me. I… Listen. It was a wonderful night."

Morinth stared, dumbfounded.

"You are very, very, very beautiful. I bet you are amazing in bed and I bet you are even better at that whole mind fucking thing that you asari do. But, it wouldn't feel right.."

"How do you know unless you try?" Morinth inquired, fingers still lingering at Jack's neck. "Look into my eyes…"

Boring brown eyes matched pools of blue enhanced by the silver turian ink, glowing in the dark. Hues vibrated, colors morphing and blending into one another. Sounds turned into echoes, a reverb of noise that drowned Jack with pleasure. "Look into my eyes," Morinth repeated, her voice rich and all around her. The whites of her eyes turned pitch black, a field of stars exploding and growing across the space of her vision. It was a window into infinity, the promise of singularity, the knowledge of everything that has been and will come. "How do I inspire you? Am I your muse? Your goddess? Would you kill for me? Do you want my blessing?"

Jack opened and closed her mouth, body sinking under the waves of want and desire. Though, the tug was momentary. She closed her eyes tightly, shaking her head as she dissuaded the pull. No matter how desirable Morinth was, she looked far too much like Samara to gain any pleasure from the joining. The Justicar made a deeper impact than the firecracker liked to admit. All those lessons on spirituality, peace, and happiness stuck with Jack, redefining the woman's purpose. Samara was as close to a mother figure as Jack had ever gotten.

Sexy times with Morinth would just be too fucking awkward. Jack made a face, expressing her distaste in the whole event.

"I don't understand…" the asari hushed, confusion weaving in and out of her face as she broke away from the mental contact. Reality replaced the dream haze of the asari's psychic connection. "How are you able to resist my… Wait. You work for her, don't you? You're the bitch's little helper…"

Wait, what…? Jack stood up and decided to just leave. Sure, she spent a pretty penny on the turian inks, but who cared? Morinth could keep them. Jack really didn't want to trouble herself by taking up more time in the increasingly hostile situation. "I don't know what you are talking about, but I'm going to take my leave no-"

_"MORINTH."_

Jack nearly lost her balance when a third voice bellowed from the door. A long figure swathed in maroon garb stalked from entry, gravity field ripping the door off its hinges and crashing into a statue nearby - sending porcelain and glass scattering on the floor. Brown eyes widened, bracing over the joining company as she tried to make sense of what was going on.

"Hello, _mother," _Morinth repulsed. The air morphed, gravity fields popping around Morinth. She punched the air, sending shock waves that bent and morphed the room. Inks floated briefly before shooting against the walls, colors exploding violently in various directions.

"Do not call me that," the familiar voice roared. A powerful blast of energy knocked Morinth off her feet and into the window facing Omega. Jack tumbled backwards, gaining distance between the nauseating action.

The artist felt disassociated from reality once Jack recognized the uninvited guest. Samara flicked her wrists, feet bracing slick floors as she pinned Morinth down under the weight of a biotic field. She glanced back and forth, dizzy at the ongoing argument spat between the Justicar and her doppelgänger.

"Why do you hate me? Why can't you see? Why can't you empathize with me?" Morinth cried, breaking through the barrier. She lifted the couch above her head and shot it towards Samara. The Justicar dodged, moving like water as she gently danced around the couch and redirected its trajectory. The loveseat flew over Jack's head, crashing into a krogan sculpture nearby. "You gave me these gifts, and yet you despise me for them."

"_Enough Morinth_," Samara roared, the harsh command a stark contrast to the Justicar's patience.

_I've finally snapped._ Years and years under the pressures of struggling through depression and torture, Jack had finally snapped. She had finally gone completely mad. And so she created her own safety net from the nightmares by hiding from the madness, avoiding the asari twins as they tackled one another.

"No. You will not punish me for existing," Morinth shouted, dark energy bursting from her palms.

Samara calmly absorbed the energy, breathing slowly through her nose and out her mouth. She redirected the biotic blast. Positive energy clashed into negative energy, both warrior and stranger reflecting an opposite sides of the same coin as their attacked locked. It was a stand still.

"How could you? How could you do this to me? Do you hate me so much..?" Morinth cried.

The Justicar expressed nothing, maintaining the lock as she spoke, "Shepard, you promised. Help me end this."

Shepard…

Shepard…

Shepard…

Jack peered from behind the separator, gauging the full room. The flat was torn apart, rubbish and broken decor orbiting the dominant energy source produced by two asari contesting for power. She spotted the silhouette of a human, grey eyes flashing in the darkness. Shepard stepped into the light, arms crossed over her chest as she studied the participants with a certain apathy

"I promised I'd reunited you with your daughter. I never said I'd help you end it."

The warrior expressed nothing. Morinth smiled, negotiating an uncertain alliance with the commander, "I don't know who you are, but I can give you anything your heart desires if you aid me."

Wait, what…!? Jack's jaw dropped, a sick feeling bracing her belly. Her mind was officially fucked. There was no way what was happening was really happening. The whole thing tasted like a bad dream, filled with deep psyche issues involving Jack's lack of childhood, her attachment to Samara, her violent metamorphosis… This had to be some sort of lucid nightmare, triggered by stress.

"No," Shepard replied, "To be honest, this isn't my fight. I could care less who the victor is. Samara, if you win, you are still bound by your oath to me. And Morinth? Well, you might be a self-centered serial killer, but I've already informed Aria T'Loak of your 'special' condition. She'd love to take care of you, if you refuse to accept my offer."

"What offer?" Morinth sneered.

"A suicide mission. To save the entire galaxy from potential Armageddon. It's a really long story, I'll totally give you the details once you're done here…," Shepard thought on that for a bit, before adding, "or I won't have to. It really depends on which one of you outlasts the other."

"You don't understand what you are doing, Shepard," Samara warned.

Shepard narrowed her eyes, "I understand completely. You are both stains in this galaxy. You both dominate and strip others of their free will."

"We are nothing alike," Samara shouted.

"On the contrary," Shepard corrected. "The apple does not fall far from the tree, and the tree grows from the seed. The only difference between the two of you is motivation. Yours is blind dogma, Samara. Morinth? You are just a self-centered hedonist. So fuck the both of you."

Jack swallowed, mouth stale and throat dry.

This was not a dream.

Not even Jack's sick imagination could fully emulate Shepard's cruelty. Interfering might set the wrong alarms. Any sudden movements might throw Samara's concentration or be used to Morinth's advantage. And who knew what Shepard was capable of. The Commander was methodical and brilliant. She could very well kill Jack after all is said and done, since the woman had served her purpose as Shepard's bait.

With everything that Jack loved on the line, she finally gathered enough courage to directly interfere.

"Don't make me call Vakarian."

Jack's threat barely disturbed the bellowing noises of dark energy bubbling around the warring mother and daughter. Shepard twitched, jaw tense and nerves bristled as the name dropped. She glared at the biotic suspiciously before her expression turned placid and blank, "Why do I care?"

"Have it your way," Jack snarled, playing the game by her own rules. Deep down inside, she wasn't entirely convinced that Garrus carried any clout over Shepard… but her gut was telling her otherwise. And when faced with an impossible situation, sometimes the impossible solution is the only probable one. "Garrus. Garrus do you copy-"

The nauseating gravity tug-of-war ceased, debris falling mid-air. The ex-convict's head shot around, regarding the asari in conflict. Shepard had intervened, fingers twisting around Morinth's wrist. She threw her aside like a doll, leaving her open for Samara's response. "You bitch…" Morinth hissed, crawling backwards as the Justicar quickly descended upon her.

"Find your peace, Morinth," Samara whispered, a plume of dark energy enveloping her hand, then arching as it punched into the stranger's head. Jack stared, blood, blue skin, and silver ink splattering across the floor.

_"-Jack? Jack, what's going on?-" _A voice buzzed from the biotic's comm link.

Shepard stared, long and hard. Eyes flicking from communication tool to Jack, frozen as the commander awaited her response.

"Hey Vakarian. anyone ever tell you have nice face paint?" Jack replied nonchalantly, watching Shepard tense.

_"-… Uh… Yeah… I suppose…?-"_ Vakarian's uncertain voice replied.

"That's all," Jack replied, dropping her arm and edging towards Samara. Jack pointed two fingers at her eyes then thrust them towards Shepard, signaling that she would be watching the commander.

_"-Alright. Thanks, Jack..-"_ The comm link buzzed, clipping off.

Shepard stared, fully understanding the ex-convict's warning. I know your soft spot. Stay away from me and my friends, and I won't exploit it. The commander growled, spinning on one heel and stalking away - leaving Jack, Samara, and the dead body of a perfect stranger.

Shoulders rolling into a deep sigh, the artist turned to regard the Justicar. "You okay..?"

The warrior's gaze remained fixed on the corpse at her feet, breathing evenly through her nose as she adjusted to present circumstances. "I killed the bravest and smartest of my daughters…"

Jack bit her lip, shifting weight from right to left leg. "I'm really sorry. I didn't know."

"How could you?" Samara replied. She faced Jack, deep eyes reflecting calm oceans - features contrary to Morinth's exotic attraction despite the similar cut. "Thank you, Jack. For stopping Shepard."

The ex-convict sighed, fingers bracing the back of her neck. "I was so scared it wouldn't work…"

One gentle hand touched Jack's face, soft fingers bracing the frame of her jaw. Blue eyes searched brown, the face of wisdom investigating a fearful child. "But it did work. Shepard maybe dangerous, but she is no Morinth. Your actions revealed something startling tonight."

Jack's brow furrowed, comforted by Samara's ginger touch. "What's that?"

Samara sighed, regarding the body of her dead daughter one last time. "My daughter was an Ardat Yakshii, one of two others. They are rare mutants who kill through mind joining. The justicars were formed as mothers of those mutants. We were designed to protect life against the Ardat Yakshii - that is the main function of our order. The rules are broad, but the purpose of our order remains the same - Guard innocents from the whims of the wicked. Other races have similar concepts. For example, we are very much like the human equivalent of rare spiritual guardians, such as archangels. We are the custodians of freedom from suffering. We are the Ardat Yakshii's fail safe."

Samara shifted her weight, her voice never wavering from that gentle pattern. "I no longer fear Shepard. She's chained to her own Justicar."

"Garrus," Jack hushed.

"I now know why they call him Archangel," Samara replied. "Vakarian is here to protect us all."

"Protect us all from _her_."

And so they stood there, the asari and the human, gazing at the dead body of a demon in a moment of understanding and mourning. Jack sighed, turning around to leave, "Come on, Samara. Let's get you back to your quarters."

"Not just yet, Jack," the Justicar replied. "I need time to grieve."

Nodding, the artist departed the room. She shot one last look back. Samara knelt down, gathered the limp body in her arms and held her like a child. Heartbreak tugged at Jack's soul, watching the exchange from a distance before stepping out of the apartment and into the streets of Omega.

Tomorrow she could die, but god knows she'd die protecting her team mates - Shepard be damn.

Jack wasn't loyal to the mission.

She was loyal to her family. And no one, not even Commander Psycho Bitch was going to mess with her pack.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note::<strong>

**This was originally going to be Vakarian's story, but Morinth took precedent. It felt cheap not including her own chapter.**

**Next chapter is positively 100 percent Vakarian's. I promise you. It's gonna be a real doozy too.**


	14. Halo

**PATCHWORK GIRL**

**HALO**  
><strong>Garrus Vakarian's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

* * *

><p>Boots hit the ground in staccato, thick rubber soles crushing a blend of synthetic flesh and calloused pieces of collector rind against metal floor.<p>

Jack dodged smooth, synthetic claws. She stepped backwards and around the vacuous enemy. Her elbow connected with the husk's inky, plastic face, bursting upon impact. Marble optics popped out of its head, machine lubricant oozing from hollow sockets. It was like attacking a piñata, with tubes and lubricant spurting out of open tears instead of confetti and candy.

Another husk charged into her, nails scraping the crown of her head. Jack pushed her weight into an uppercut, tearing the creature from sternum up to jaw - knocking the thing's head completely off. Machine oil poured over her, coppery black pooling at her feet. The firecracker swept a hand over her face, wiping off a layer of grease.

Jack had to move faster or they'd turn everyone she loved into mindless slaves.

She launched into a sprint, weaving in and out of the tunnels. Jack scouted ahead, snapping from point A to point B with precision. The air warbled as her body slammed directly into clusters of oncoming husks.

Jack's brown eyes searched the cradle of death, chewing on a lower lip nervously. Her reflexes twitched, ears hyper aware. She had to keep moving. She could not make a mistake.

One slip…

One fall…

One misstep…

… and Jack could jeopardize everything she ever loved.

"Jack, move," Shepard ordered.

And she moved, because no one disobeys Shepard. Even if her orders lead you deeper into hell.

* * *

><p><em>24 hours ago - before the Omega 4 infiltration.<em>

* * *

><p>Wrapped fists slammed into the punching bag, sweat soaking through the black cotton of her tank top. Jab, Cross, Hook, Uppercut. Her shoulder followed through each punch, sending the sand bag swinging back and forth. On its return sway, Jack lightly jabbed before pivoting off her left foot. Her right hand dropped as a roundhouse kick connected synthetic leather.<p>

Jab, Cross, Hook, Uppercut. Jack adopted a southpaw stance, left foot forward, right foot pushing her body into the first jab. She forward kicked, pushing 100lbs of sand out in front of her. The biotic stepped backwards with her left foot and swung her full weight around, flanking the punching bag on its descent. She gave it one firm kick, knocking it a solid ten feet into the air.

Jack was not ready to die.

The tattoo artist sighed, stepping backwards as she watched the heavy cylinder pendulum swing back and forth. Fingers peeled back reinforced gauze, unlayering the ribbons of cotton from around calloused hands. She briefly sucked her right finger into her mouth, scratching the surface of a canine - digging white plaque from the enamel. Jack tossed the used gauze in a dirty towel bin on her way towards the lift.

Maybe Shepard didn't have to kill her. Maybe, just maybe, Jack would be able to make peace with the psycho.

Jack advanced the elevator, hitting the call button one. Two. Three times. Light, metal doors slid back in welcome, revealing the small, unoccupied space.

"What floor, Jack?" EDI inquired from the lift's speakers.

"Where's Shepard?" The ex-convict inquired.

"Commander Shepard is at the Combat Information Center. Shall I deliver a message?"

Jack rolled her shoulders, one thumb brushing across her nose.

"How 'bout you deliver me instead?"

* * *

><p>There was no other deck that weirded her out as much as the Normandy's command center.<p>

In her long resume of life experiences, Jack once tried space pirating out. Jack had boarded, robbed, ransacked and stole a spectrum of different ships, so she solidly understood the internal layouts of batarian ships, hanar arks, elcor barges, alliance freights, quarian caravans and turian vessels. None of them were as unusual looking as the Normandy.

The Commanding Officer's station was situated directly in the back of the Combat Information Center (CIC), a design specific to turian ships. The alliance's military structure encouraged direct engagement between commanding officers and their subordinates. Turians preferred a more hierarchal approach. The kind of approach where the ship's captain looked out and over lower ranking officers.

Shepard stood with her feet slightly apart, elbows braced over the map's rail. Radiance pulsed from the marble hologram of the Milky Way Galaxy, emanating light around Shepard and haloing her body. Shepard's distinct poise was only enhanced by her ugly leather vest and old blood stained trousers. _'I don't give a fuck how I look to you or myself,'_ her clothes shouted. _'I have more important shit to do.'_

The commander's powerful effigy stunned Jack. The way she stood there, in those ugly, musk smelling colony slacks, eyes never moving from the hologram that swirled and turned at different speeds… She was otherworldly. A creature wearing a people suit, pretending to be human, true nature peeking in the stillness. Kasumi once told Jack that sometimes Shepard would stop talking mid-sentence, absorbed by star charts.

_'Yeoman calls it disassociating,'_ Kasumi mentioned one time, back when the thief was spoon feeding Jack anything and everything about Shepard. _'Sometimes Shepard will stare at the charts for hours. Sometimes its just a few minutes. Shepard eats and sleeps on there, always facing the star charts. She's obsessed with those maps.'_

Jack assumed Captain commander ma'am's disassociations were just her bullshit way to make people leave her alone. The biotic suspected Shepard flat out ignored people so she could keep them out of her face. And maybe that would be the case, if Shepard were like other people. But Shepard wasn't like other people. She was a complete stranger.

Shepard stood mounted in place, leather-cloaked arms draped languidly over the rail. The galaxy circled her, wings of nebula and stars arching around her body, surrounding her in the Milky Way's colors. She belonged there, physically and emotionally. She was the Normandy's mind, a machine carved from flesh, in synch with an aeronautical masterpiece. And, like the brain, Shepard was eternally engaged to her station of power, studying and processing those star charts.

Jack knew, in that moment, she had encountered something completely rare and unforgettable. Jack could see greatness, the sort of greatness that gets passed down as legends and molds a new historical arc. Shepard was great and terrifying.

Shepard was frightening and beautiful, an angel of war.

Jack was no longer afraid of her. It was like standing next to a tiger in a cage - Jack could admire the beauty of the animal without fearing for her own life. She had outwitted the beast, and the cage bars were made out of knowledge and power.

"I want a tattoo," Jack announced at the bottom of Shepard's pulpit.

Shepard did not move or speak.

"I want a tattoo," Jack repeated.

The ship hushed. Fingers stopped tapping keys, casual conversation faded into quiet. A few murmurs peeked between the silence, increasing the tension between Jack and Shepard.

"I want a tattoo of the Normandy on my neck," The biotic requested. "Could you do that for me?"

The bond Jack had with the Normandy was greater than her hatred for Shepard. Jack was offering a truce, opening Shepard's caged doors. Let bygones be bygones. And perhaps, with Shepard's permission, she could sanctify her love of home.

Shepard gingerly inclined her head over a shoulder, granite eye inspecting the ex-convict from her peripheral. Jack could see one quarter of her face, pale skin exuding cold colors. Her eyes glittered, a red pinpoint peeking behind a black pupil. Colorless lips parted, the wing of a nostril flaring, shifting the straight lines of her face paint. Shepard watched Jack, backlit by the colors of star stuff.

"Only if you do me a favor."

Jack's eyes narrowed, "I don't know if you are in a position to bargain with me, Commander 'Fuck-Off.'"

The biotic could hear the collected gasp of the entire command deck. Silence as all eyes flashed, glancing hesitantly between Jack and Shepard.

"And so a little pre-game entertainment before the show," Joker's voice buzzed from the ship comm.

"Can it, Moreau," Shepard grumbled. "And get your fucking beauty sleep already. We are leaving in five, dumbass."

".. Whatever. My money was on Jack anyways," the voice grumbled.

Well, at least Joker was great at slicing through tension, even if his timing was for shit. Jack rolled her eyes, and pointed at her neck, "Are you going to do it or not?"

"I said I would, but only if you returned the favor," Shepard whistled, fully facing Jack. She peered down from the podium, surrounded by the galaxy's halo. One finger drew across her nose, following a trail of blue paint that outlined heavy rectangular lines over her face. Shepard stopped where ink met cheek bone, tapping it pointedly.

Jack gawked. Shepard nodded.

"It'll hurt," Jack answered.

"But you've done it before?" Shepard inquired

The biotic nodded slowly, "Yeah. But it will hurt."

"Good," The commander replied, "As it should."

Jack watched Shepard step down from her pulpit, fingers interlaced behind her back as she strolled towards the lift. The commander licked her teeth and whistled through her gap, sauntering towards the elevator. Jack stared, dumbfounded. The crew stared, equally dumbfounded. The doors slid open and Shepard entered the elevator. The entire command deck watched on, completely bewildered.

"Uh… What the hell just happened?" Joker inquired from the comm.

"Progress," Jack replied, following Commander Shepard to the elevator.

* * *

><p>Her skin burned, needle penetrating flesh. Jack breathed through the pain, closing her eyes and focusing on breath exercises. She slowly inhaled through her nose, listening to the soft rattle of air as it passed through her lungs. Her senses awakened, taken shape by the biotic's burning neck.<p>

Jack glanced up from her cot to the body mirror across the room. She could see Shepard looming over her, like a giant vulture picking at her skin. The commander narrowed her eyes, lower lip sucked into her mouth as she pierced Jack's nape with the machine. She could faintly see the Normandy, illustration peeking between the long black bars of older tattoos. Jack didn't care what kind of design Shepard had in mind, just as long as it was true to the Normandy's spirit.

Shepard handled the machine like a pro.

"Of course you can tattoo," Jack muttered out loud.

Shepard worked with a frown, "My old body looked very different from this one. I had scars, train marks, chunks of missing flesh. And a lot of ink."

"So you figured out how to use a tattoo machine," Jack muttered chewing on her lower lip.

The commander sniffed, and moved the machine's frame from the right hand to the left. Her left index and thumb clutched the denticulated grip, working diligently.

"You're also ambidextro-?!" Jack stopped mid-utter. "…Of course you're ambidextrous," The convict grumbled, vexation replacing surprise.

"Imagine waking up one morning in a completely different shell." Shepard whistled, ignoring Jack's comment, "I looked down and I could only see naked flesh. No scars. No tattoos. No old wounds. No discoloration. No sag. Just a clean, perfect body. I was wearing a stranger's skin for clothes."

Jack sniffed, teeth grit as burning flashes passed across conflagrant skin. She was a phoenix, nesting in ink instead of flame. In pain, there is life. "Uh-huh." Jack hummed, trying to ignore Shepard's tirade as she focused on the moment.

"I am wearing a permanent costume that no one recognizes, not even myself," Shepard continued. "I was certain with who I was. And now that person is dead. I am merely a shadow, a glimpse into a carved life."

Jack frowned. She had nearly forgotten how fucked up Shepard's confessions could be. "So you're saying you aren't who you were… well then who the fuck are you?"

Shepard licked her lips and sighed. "I am a million different people at any point in time. I am Lady Noh. I am Jane Doe. I am Officer Doe. I'm the Bloody Shepherdess of Torfan, leading her flocks to slaughter. I am Jane Shepard. I am XO Jane Shepard. I am Foucault. I am Jane. I am Commander. I am Urdnot Shepard. I am Siha. I am a vessel."

"… You make it sound like you don't know yourself."

"Perhaps," Shepard agreed. "I don't feel that it is necessary to know exactly what I am. The main interest in life and work is to become someone else that you were not in the beginning."

"Just who are you becoming, Shepard?"

"A million different people. At any point in time. Everything to everyone."

Silence gripped the room as the biotic digested the chilling words. Jack would find no peace with Shepard's cold, foreboding attitude. There would be no love between them. Jack mulled in silence, listening to the machine's motor as it buzzed. The sound was a mechanical likeness to the collector bugs, reminding her of the death that may come soon. Shepard turned off the gun, and applied a thick layer of medigel across Jack's inflamed skin.

The biotic sighed, stepping off the cot and towards the full length mirror, admiring the silhouette of the Normandy illustrated, camouflaged behind deep black lines carved into Jack's neck.

Shepard had chosen to paint the Normandy without a banner, failing to assign ownership to the Alliance or Cerberus. It sported a coat of red, muted silver, and ebony, wings spread. The commander had chosen a top-down view of the ship, the vessel's shape emulating a long sword.

It was beautiful.

"What happens if we survive?" Jack asked aloud. "What next?"

Shepard bit her lip and shook her head, "We do what's assigned. What choice do we have?"

Jack blinked, taken back by the commander's mechanical answer. Sure, Shepard may appear great and terrifying, but the Normandy was no longer hers to control. The valkyrie's wings had been clipped by the Illusive Man. "You are just going to give in? Just like that?" Jack snapped.

"I may have free will, but my ship doesn't," Shepard eased. "What good is a body that I can't move, Jack? I'm shackled."

Jack snapped, "He will fucking destroy us. You _know _that's exactly what he's gonna do. He's fucking crazy."

"I don't have a choice, Jack," Shepard cleared her throat, placed the tattoo machine aside, and made way towards the stairs. "And neither do you."

"The fuck I do, Shepard. The fuck _you _do," the biotic spat, stalking back to meet the commander, blocking her exit. "No one fights because they are told to. You do it for a reason. Are you fighting for the Illusive Man?"

Foucault glared, "No."

"The Alliance?"

"Never."

"Then who, Shepard? Just who the fuck _are_ you fighting for?"

Shepard's jaw clicked. She said nothing. Jack cocked her head sideways, upper lip curled, "Who are you fighting for, Shepard?"

The commander swallowed. Her stalwart expression receded, revealing crisp clarity and conveying calm. Disciplined hands awakened, raising to frame Jack's face. Thin brows knit in alarm, brown eyes shifting back and forth as they regarded the commander's close quarters.

"I would like to show you something," Shepard requested.

"Fine," Jack relinquished. "But do not fuck around with me, Shepard. I mean it."

Ignoring the biotic's threat, Shepard's right hand gingerly clutched Jack's jawline. Her left hand descended down her face, the back of her fingers brushing across the arch of Jack's cheek. They were so close, Jack could actually see detail in the red cybernetics hiding behind Shepard's eyes, affirming that those were not real eyes. They were entirely artificial. Maybe Shepard really wasn't a human. Maybe she really was just some machine dressed in a person suit.

Methodically, Shepard drew her thumb in one swoop over the bridge of Jack's nose. "Left to right… West to east. Palaven's sun sets in this direction." She brushed invisible ink over the woman's jaw line. The commander repeated the pattern on the other side, gently canting Jack's head. "Two great rivers run from the mainland into the coast, signifying the continent."

Shepard breathed evenly, hands lifting Jack's chin. "Look at me."

Jack looked. She was close, close enough for Jack to count her pores. A certain natural beauty lent itself to Shepard, pale milk face framed by warm brown hair. She wore no makeup, nor was their need - her face was without blemish. The blue face paint only added to the commander's artificial visage. A dead china doll stared back, no life or love glimmering behind monochromatic irises.

Shepard breathed evenly through her mouth, wind whistling past white teeth and dull lips. Her hands cupped Jack's face, thumbs resting at the sides of her nostrils. Her hard glare softened, revealing some soul behind cool features. She pretended to draw paint along Jack's nose, from nostril to bridge, then swept her thumbs under her eyes. They stopped just at the biotic's temples. Her fingers pushed against Jack's scalp, as if combing through hair. Her thumbs remained locked at the corners of Jack's eyes.

She leaned forward, the commander and artist's foreheads touching. Jack's eyes twitched back and forth, crossing slightly as she watched the strange woman. Red lips parted in awe. "I'll never understand you, will I?"

The softness in Shepard's expression drained, "You can try."

"You keep stopping me."

The commander shrugged, intelligent grey eyes searching Jack's face. "Not anymore."

"I don't think I can solve you," Jack relinquished, shoulders rolling. "I don't think _anyone_ can."

"You can. You are. You will. I know you will." The commander's frown deepened, "I am certain of it."

Sometimes there were mysteries that could not be readily answered. Instead of imploring Shepard for more clues on solving weird cryptic riddles, Jack redirected the conversation entirely. She established what she wanted to establish - thread of trust. Perhaps it was enough to bind Shepard from hurting her friends.

"You realize this is going to sting like a bitch, right?" Jack pointed out, finger gesticulating Shepard's face paint. "Facial tattoos sting. Bad. Like, really really bad."

"Does it hurt worse than dying?" Shepard replied evenly.

"… I don't know… I've never died…"

"Yeah. I doubt it hurts worse than dying," The commander rolled her eyes and laid right down on the cot, "Now let's get this over with."

Jack shrugged, stepping towards the cleaning station. She tore apart the tattoo machine and expertly cleaned each part, snapping off the rubber bands and removing the contact screws. "Seriously, though. Why Garrus Vakarian?"

Shepard frowned and shrugged, "I thought I made it obvious."

"No. No you really didn't," Jack pointed out, untwisting the cube clamp and setting the entire gun apart.

The commander chewed on her lip, before falling back. "That's a shame."

"God damm-, Fine. Fine. I don't care," Jack grumbled offhanded, cleaning tattoo machine parts and reassembling the pieces. The pieces clicked together like a puzzle, She slipped the tube into the frame, and opened a new needle from a small sealed baggy. She screwed the tube tightly into the cylinder, turning the allen wrench clockwise. "You want me to use turian paint?"

"I want it to be permanent," Shepard replied.

"I can substitute," Jack reassured. "Pierce it under the skin. It lasts a helluva lot longer. But it also stings like shit." Jack pointed at the batarian slave crown sitting on her head. "That's tattooed turian paint."

The commander frowned, studying the blocks of alien code that haloed Jack's head. Supposedly, the pattern stated her blood type, biotic prowess, and other information useful for permanent trading and identification. She could've hidden it behind hair or something, but Jack preferred to advertise it. The crown of ink was prequel to a long history of scars etched deeply under the artist's skin.

"I would say yes, but it would have to be Garrus Vakarian's ink," Shepard answered. "Turian paint is culturally important. Apparently the cobalt blue ink is manufactured from rare minerals and migratory beetles native to his part of Palaven. If I'm going to appropriate it, I'm going to do it right."

"I can get it!"

Shepard paled. Jack dropped her gun with a clatter, tools and pieces splintering across the floor. Both women looked up, peering at the rafters.

"What?" Kasumi inquired.

Shepard stared at Jack. Jack dramatically mouthed 'I Had No Fucking I-Dea', finger pointing sharply at the invisible friend hiding somewhere up there spying like the spying spider that she was.

"No need to say more. He keeps the ink in his dorm's drawer, so I'll be right back!" And that mischievous voice fleeted away.

"Sometimes I wish I could put a tracking device on that girl," Shepard muttered.

"You and I both," Jack agreed.

It felt good to finally agree with Shepard on something.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:::<strong>

**My other story, Kingdom of Rust, explores Vakarian's P.O.V. of Shepard, adding more nuance to the situation. There are also clues that tie into this story. Heavy foreshadowing. ****A mystery's about to unravel. How exciting.**

**The 'Big Woozy' I mentioned is just a little too insane to cram it into a single chapter. So, I find myself splitting the big woozy into 3 stories all together - This chapter did serve as an important set up, so I didn't completely alter my promise.**

**I leave you with a quote from my favorite philosopher.**

**_I don't feel that it is necessary to know exactly what I am. The main interest in life and work is to become someone else that you were not in the beginning.  
><em>_- Michel Foucault_**


	15. En Passant

**PATCHWORK GIRL**

**EN PASSANT**  
><strong>Shepard's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

* * *

><p><em>7 hours before the Omega-4 Infiltration.<em>

* * *

><p>Tattooing turian skin was more like chiseling rock. It required a special diamond-tipped tool, needle-shaped into a spade. You had to dent and shape the thick exoskeleton, carving small grooves that trapped the ink - just deep enough for the paint to set. It was a very slow process that left little room for error.<p>

"Alright, the moment of truth," Jack muttered, dipping a short, flat brush into thick, white ink. She heard Garrus draw his breath. A deep vibration shot up her arm where hand contacted skin, buzzing her bones and chattering her teeth.

Vakarian closed his eyes, thick lips fluttering as Jack outlined the shallow trenches of his carapace with white paint. The ink settled, softer layers of spongy skin absorbing the color. Jack waited patiently, holding her breath and hoping that the ink would not bleed or spread over man-made canals. After counting 50 heartbeats, Jack relaxed. She dipped a fresh brush into a vial of red paint, adding the last stroke to the design.

When the white and crimson ink settled, the artist branded Vakarian's chest with a hot iron - forging color into metal. He did not hiss, staring directly ahead as heat impelled his torso.

She polished the area with olive oil, rubbing the agent across the lumps and bumps of turian skin, replicating the natural grooves of the exoskeleton across hardening ink. With a small needle, she detailed the design.

"What are you doing?" Vakarian inquired, finally interrupting the silence.

"You want Shepard's badge on your chest, right?"

"Yes.." Garrus affirmed.

Jack sniffed, biting the tip of her tongue as she worked, "Well, her badge has dents on it. If you want the badge, then you have to keep the baggage that comes with it."

Vakarian paused for a long moment, inlaid eyes studying the tattoo across his chest. Half of his face cracked, pink spongy skin peeking between hard steel plates where rocket shrapnel cut.

"You have an interesting way of looking at it," Garrus pointed out, tilting his head as he regarded the work.

Jack shrugged and continued to etch in the details, bending his skin like clay and creating small ranges of bumps and cracks across the white and red shapes that read 'N7'.

"Where did you learn how to tattoo turians, Jack?" Vakarian inquired, tilting his head to watch her work. "Face artists don't necessarily run around sharing trade secrets with humans."

"Extranet, Garrus," Jack sniffed. "There's a video for everything. Including how to tattoo a turian, by face artists who are willing to trade for fast cash."

"They aren't usually successful face painters, you know," Vakarian pointed out, "There aren't many humans who know how to do this, let alone turian masters."

"Are you saying I'm better than a turian art master?" Jack asked wryly.

"Eh…" Vakarian hummed. "To be honest, it really isn't hard to beat Palaven's idea of a 'art master'. Drawing a few ancient lines across the face and fringes isn't what I call forward thinking."

"Uh…huh…" Jack hummed, blowing away bits of metal waste. "Well, I had to survive and gangbangers of all species love a good tattoo. Gangbangers and volus."

Garrus nodded, resting his head back on the cot. "An artist who understands economics. I can respect that."

Jack nodded, adding another coat of oil over polished flesh. It was living metal, breathing, shifting, and moving across the terrain of plated slabs. She stepped backwards, pointing a thumb at the mirror behind her. "Get a good view of yourself, hard tin."

The turian stood, stretching long sinew muscles and joints under shifting plates. The letters 'N7' glowed white, chemically combusting and reacting to the molecules that made up Vakarian's exoskeleton. He stepped towards the mirror, mandibles extending and jaw falling, regarding the care and detail of Subject Zero's work.

Garrus Vakarian stood somewhere between 6 to 7 feet, naked upper torso bulked and carved, attached to a thin trunk. His lower body remained armored, cracked Haliat shell encasing avian legs. He turned, various joints and plates crackling like popcorn as his skin and armor shifted with the bend. It was a pleasant sound, like gently rattling bones in a pillow case. Intelligent blue eyes searched Jack, half his face glowing under a visor's radiance. Vakarian's expressions were kind of unsettling, but in a good way. He vaguely appeared human, the way his eyes softened and mandibles flexed. It was surreal, if only because Jack had never met a turian who behaved so human.

"Tell me, Jack. Why did you get that tattoo of the Normandy on your neck?" Garrus inquired, his visor washing him in soft light.

Jack frowned, rolling her shoulders. Where the fuck would she begin to even tell the tale? "It's a long story, hard tin."

Garrus rolled his shoulders and leaned into a pillar, "Humor me."

Jack never before experienced the fortune of Vakarian's company. The turian was a notorious workaholic who actively spent his time eating, sleeping and working. Jacob once joked that Vakarian's body was so efficient, anything he ate never went to waste - hence, infrequent bathroom breaks.

There was something admirable about his work dedication, however it made Garrus less of a public figure and more of an uncertainty. Jack had no idea what his company was like. At best, she knew he killed Sovereign, pissed off all Omega and survived a rocket to the fucking face.

Jack started to wash the paint off her brushes with a temporary sink, manually pumping the water with her foot. "Ask your question again. Ask me why I got this tattoo."

Vakarian shifted his weight, steel hip scratching across the barred pillars. "Alright. Why did you get the Normandy tattooed on your neck."

Jack nodded, "Quid pro quo."

Garrus blinked, shaking his head slightly as he made sense of the word. Antiquated earth slang was not popular on most translation chips, Jack suspected. "Quid pro quo. It means 'this for that'. It's like trading. You give me information, I'll give you info-"

"I know what '_quid pro quo_' means, Jack," Garrus interrupted, blinking at her. "I'm just wondering what you're asking for."

The artist's brows stitched together. "What, you know french or something?"

"Well, yeah."

Jack only stared at Garrus. He blinked and shrugged. "You know how it is… you are just researching antique Punisher rifles manufactured before the First Contact war, and then you end up on a page about the HMWSR Advanced Rifle, seamlessly integrating Hahne Kedar innovation with - and get this - Armax sophistication. We are talking about combining a Python with a Punisher. Geth level sniper gun. _Widow_ level. With half the punch, so salarians and humans can use it without blowing off an arm from the kick back. But anyways, you start another search tree. Where did Hahne Kedar come from? When was it founded? Who founded it? Where did the original research team come from? Where did the original designer come from? Where can I find the patents? But I couldn't understand the patents without learning the original language, which is spoken by less than ten percent of the human population..."

"Are you telling me you can speak french?" Jack interrupted, jaw dropped.

Garrus chuckled, blue eyes glimmering under dull light. "I don't have the proper voice box to speak the language, Jack. Turians don't have vocal cords. Wouldn't be able to pronounce the 'R's too. My tongue doesn't work that way."

"For a species without vocal cords, you sure talk a lot," The artist insinuated.

"What can I say? I make for a horrible turian," Vakarian pointed out, running a talon across the twisted bark of his arm.

Jack shook her head, "Aren't translation tools made for that kind of shit, Garrus? Why the hell did you learn a language when the tech is right there."

Vakarian shook his head, "I wanted to read french without the error of translation. Make up my mind, instead of rely on the summary of the Hierarchy's almanacs."

"And you learned a pointless, dying language that isn't even turian just to read a couple of ancient gun patents…"

"Completely worth it."

"I don't know why I'm surprised by anything anymore," Jack muttered to herself, tossing her diamond-tipped stippling pen into a plastic bag and flopping right on her cot. "Fine. Back on topic. So you gonna play? Quid pro quo? I'll answer your question, but first you gotta answer mine."

Garrus blinked, mandibles flexed. The air buzzed as a low rattle bubbled from Vakarian's chest. Conversations with turians always weirded Jack out. It was like chatting up a seven-foot vibrator that could talk back.

Vakarian shrugged, "Sure. Ask away."

Jack knit her fingers behind her head, brown eyes studying the drawings she taped over the beams that braced the walkway above her. Sketches. Drawings. Studies. The wash of inks and colors looked down at her like a thousand twinkling stars, immersing Jack in the beauty of those she admired and her attempts to communicate that admiration. "You told me you got Shepard's tattoo so you could prove your loyalty or some shit. But… Why Shepard?"

Garrus paused, cheek plates pulsed gently. He hummed, splintered sound pleasantly grazing the air. He tapped his chin as he considered the question. "It's… hard to explain. It's… ah, complicated."

"Humor me," Jack replied.

The turian's face twisted, halo blue eyes fixed on the convict. For a creepy walking piece of rock that vaguely resembled something between a bird and an insect, Vakarian's eyes were remarkable. Black circles centered marbled orbs of turquoise blues and indigos freckled by white. Sunken under folds of black skin, encased by a frame of metal skin. Vakarian measured her as an equal, intelligent gaze communicating respect. His eyes were so uncomfortably human, Jack almost forgot she was looking at a turian.

"Have you ever played chess before, Jack?"

The biotic raised a thin, dark brow at the inquiry. "I used to play a long time ago, yeah. Not anymore…"

Vakarian nodded. He shifted away from the support column, treading towards shelves Jack had installed recently for storage. Garrus collected his armor from one of the square niches. "Now. what I'm about to say does not represent the opinions of anyone else on this ship. Keep in mind that I am a turian - a very bad example of a turian - and I am not a human, so my perception of the world is a little different from yours."

Jack rolled her eyes. "I'm not xenophobic or an idiot, Garrus. You don't have to give me a lecture on culture and diversity. I get it. You're different. Whatever. Answer the question. Why Shepard and what the fuck does it have to do with chess?"

The room buzzed, metal beams echoing the sound and enhancing Vakarian's sigh. He reattached the layers of armor, beginning with reinforced synthetic skin that clung to him like spandex.

Once the black suit firmly braced his torso, Vakarian placed his damaged collar around his neck. The thick, metal frame matched the turian's scars perfectly. He continued to brace pieces of armor around his body. Garrus arranged the plates of armor around his body, talking as he continued to piece his chest plate together, "Then you know the game model. There's a board of sixteen squares, with eight pawns, two rooks, two knights, two bishops, a queen and king. The object of the game is to win without sacrificing too many soldiers. Each piece falls on a scale of value depending on the situation or employed strategy. The king's pawn is far more valuable than, say, the knight's pawn."

Jack twisted her lips and sat up, eyes following Vakarian as he dressed his upper body, shoulder braces and gauntlets snapping in place. "Shepard loves chess. Lives and breathes it, because every piece has purpose," Garrus narrowed his eyes. "It's not just a strategic game to Shepard. It's the order of all things. Everything has value, on a complex scale only she can read."

The turian gave a once over in the full body mirror, pausing as he studied the scars and bandages plastered across his broken face. "She's playing a multi-faceted, complex war game with ancient, unknowable enemies, and she means to win. Now, I see myself as a piece on Shepard's chess board, as are you and everyone else whose fighting back."

"Yeah but… Fuck, Vakarian. She's ruthless. At what cost does she have to win?" Jack added with a grimace.

Vakarian shrugged. "Her methods may not be kosher, but they work. Your question was 'Why Shepard'. And my answer is, because she's the only thing standing between us and a wave of galactic-wide extinction. I feel safe with her."

Jack frowned, "You really think she'll pull it off? Saving the galaxy and shit?"

Halo, blue eyes tied the artist's gaze, prolonging the intimate moment as he replied with conviction. "Jack. Let me put it this way… The last time the reapers killed Shepard, she came back even more pissed off than ever before."

Jack chuckled, affirming Vakarian's amusing (and honest) answer. She sniffed, rolling her shoulders with a pop of her joint. If Jack survived this plunge into hell, she was definitely rewarding herself with a full body massage at the Presidium wards.

"Jack," Garrus hummed, causing the beam he leaned on to rattle against his armor. "Your turn. Why did you tattoo the Normandy on your neck?"

The artist sighed, searching across the ocean of pictures and paintings that swallowed the walls and beams. The figure drawings of crew members, the studies of rooms and cargo. The Medbay, Tali, Zaeed, the Control Deck, the mess hall… The images covered the space above her, clustering her with the company of life-like illustrations that talked to Jack from the past.

"Because the Normandy taught me that love isn't a four letter word for weakness. This ship showed me that love, real love, is freedom from suffering."

Blue eyes shifted down, fixed on the ground at his feet as he considered Jack's confession. He looked back up, eyes twitching back and forth as they regarded her. "Yes but, why the Normandy specifically?"

The firecracker bit a cherry red lip, brows knit quizzically as she tried to find the right words to answer the question. But, Jack was no great speech writer. And her vocabulary was definitely for shit. She was an illustrator, not a freaking orator. While she did say some profound shit every once in a while, Jack spent long hours figuring out exactly what to say and when to say it. She was not very good at 'on the spot' questions. "I don't know. It's like… God, this sounds so fucking cheesy. But like.. You guys are my gang, you know? Except… I know you ain't gonna stab me in the back like other gangs do. I trust you and shit. Even Cheerleader. And it's weird, you know? Everyone here's so fucking different. Everyone on this ship shouldn't get along. And not everyone does, but its cool. We aren't gonna kill each other over our differences. We have bigger fish to fry… we get a lot more shit done by not fucking… being stupid…"

Vakarian nodded, acknowledging Jack's response. His cleared his throat, mandibles fluttering as he started to type something on his omni-tool, "There's something I read the other day that reminds me of what you're saying.. Let's see- Ah, There it is."

He clicked the information, cleared his throat and recited the text across the holographic screen.

"Flaunt out O Sea, your separate flags of nations!  
>"Flaunt out, visible as ever, the various ship-signals!<br>"But do you reserve especially for yourself, and for the soul of man, one flag above all the rest,  
>"A spiritual woven Signal, for all nations, emblem of man elate above death,<br>"Token of all brave captains, and all intrepid sailors and mates,  
>"And all that went down doing their duty;<br>"Reminiscent of them'twined from all intrepid captains, young or old;  
>"A pennant universal, subtly waving, all time, o'er all brave sailors,<br>"All seas, all ships."

Jack stared, one brow raised as the other fell. She was definitely going to start a poetry club after surviving the Omega 4 Relay. Who knew so many people onboard the Normandy were so into freaking Walt Whitman's 'Leaves of Grass'? The biotic sighed, shrugged and stared straight up. Whatever. "Jesus. You're the fourth person whose quoted that fucking book. What, did Shepard require you guys to read Walt Whitman on the first Normandy or something?"

Vakarian's mandibles flexed and eyes softened, a line of teeth flashing at Jack. His expression vaguely resembled a human grin, "A former comrade of mine loved Walt Whitman. Quoted it constantly. I read his book after she... passed away, so that I could always enjoy her company." He paused, amused, "However, Shepard _did_ assign the original crew to read Michel Foucault's entire bibliography, after Sovereign's defeat."

The biotic's jaw nearly dropped, "You're fucking kidding me."

Garrus snorted, "How did you think she picked up the nickname 'Foucault'?"

"Uh…" Jack blinked. "Jacob said it was because it rhymed with 'Fuck Off'…"

"Well, I suppose that's an added bonus. But no. Joker called her that because, and I quote, 'Shepard's a bitchier Michel Foucault with an even greater hate for dumbasses with too much power.'" Garrus paused, then added, "That, and it rhymes with 'Fuck Off'."

They paused, just staring at each other. Jack didn't know what to say to that, wasn't sure what to add. She felt kind of stupid, actually. Berated herself for her own stupidity. Of course Shepard would name herself after a dead philosopher. Why the fuck didn't she bother doing any research? It was so dumb. Jack sighed and hopped to her feet, sauntering towards the stairs, "Come on, Hard Tin. It's almost time to board the Frankenvessel."

Vakarian hummed, ringing buzz bouncing off metal beams. "Hey Jack…"

"Yeah, hard tin?"

The turian stared at the ground, quiet and awkward. "Thank you."

"Hey man," Jack sniffed, half grinning. "It's cool. I know. Now, I have to piss. I'll see you shortly."

And so she stepped out, treading into the lift and leaving Vakarian to his own devices. After elevator's doors closed, Kasumi's cloaking device flickered, revealing her presence by the ex-convict's side. Jack sniffed and leaned in, giving her friend a one-armed embrace.

"Hey Jack-O-Lantern," Kasumi gently teased.

"Hey Kassie."

The thief sighed, leaning her head into the woman's shoulder. "I know a wonderful spa at the Citadel wards. Two for one special, massage included."

"Book the appointment for next month," Jack grinned.

"Already have."

The artist and the art thief looked at one another for a long time before they broke out laughing. Live or die, all would be okay. Just as long as Jack got to bask in the light of friendship one last time.

* * *

><p><em>3 hours before the Omega-4 Relay Mission.<em>

* * *

><p>For a small bug, the Kodiak shuttle was surprisingly self-sufficient. The transport could sustain enough oxygen and energy to feed a full house. They also reminded Jack of former cages.<p>

Following Jack's stint on Pragia, the Kodiak 01 required extensive repairs on Omega, prompting shore leave. And while the convict was busy tattooing, plotting revenge, dancing with serial killers and psychoanalyzing psychopaths, the Kodiak 01 was patched together at one of Harrot's ship lots.

Sometimes Jack stopped by the yard to watch Tali, Garrus and Legion diligently work as Harrot's indentured servants played chess. Between tattoo appointments, Jack would sit nearby - smoking a cigarette she borrowed from Zaeed and sketch. She watched the three work, capturing quick gestures of the mixed ensemble, studying the hell out of their bodies with an omni-tablet and pen. And while Jack worked, her models worked as well.

Not able to wait for Cerberus to ship new materials, The aliens (and geth) chose to do the work themselves. They purchased recycled parts and hauled in large nets of different ship parts from the pier market. Tali carefully designed blue prints of the repaired shuttle as Legion measured and cut sheets of mismatched metal. Garrus would then weld the sheets into the busted ship, hiding the damages.

Whenever Jack stepped out to for a cigarette and drawing session, a new guest joined the Kodiak's repairs. At first Engineer Donnelly and Daniels stopped by, offering ideas that improved Tali's original design. Then Mordin popped over to sing as he repaired the ship's computers. Grunt dragged around old planes. Zaeed compared war stories with Garrus. Even the Mess Sergeant brought by a hearty meal to the growing shuttle repair committee.

When all was said and done, the gathering stepped back to admire and regard their handy work at the end of shore leave.

"Jesus. You guys created a Frankenvessel," Joker commented, once they loaded the patched together shuttle.

"She is… pretty ugly…" Jacob shrugged.

"Aww, c'mon, Taylor," Kasumi giggled, "She's not ugly. She's cute."

"Nah. She's pretty fucking ugly," Jack had said. "But that doesn't mean she isn't endearing as a two month-old kitten with fins for legs."

They had stripped the Kodiak 01's ideal design, replaced by an asymmetrical collage of different shuttles. It was still shaped and polished perfectly, but it no longer looked like a Cerberus shuttle. Frankenvessel was a splattering of different ships, ships that once belonged to batarians or asari or turians or everyone else unrelated to humans. Multiple hands had touched Frankenvessel's surface, taking away the homogeneity of pattern and color that Jack loathed.

The Kodiak 01 was ugly; The Frankenvessel was a work of art.

And she got the job done.

Jack and a few others guessed the Frankenvessel's mixed look is what helped the board a major Blue Suns trade port without casting suspicion. At first.

_'You said this ship was empty, Shepard. There was total clearance. On _all_ sides. So how in God's name did a derelict turian freighter turn into major Blue Suns contraband checkpoint _over night_,'_ Miranda Lawson shouted between firing shots.

Shepard shrugged and said, _'I know the Shadow Broker'._

Miranda replied with - _'Are you mad?' _or_ 'Are you insane?' _or_ 'We can't get in contact with the Normandy this far away!' _and_ 'This was suppose to be a _test_.'_

Shepard said nothing, and on they went.

But Jack understood. Jack totally got it. She suspected a few others got it too. The commander _was_ testing them. In a make-or-break situation, the heat was on and the entire crew did not have time to bitch around. They had to stay on point, listen to Shepard, communicate and move.

If they couldn't tear apart the Blue Suns' capital port in the Terminus, completely unharmed, then they had no business diving into the center of the galaxy to infiltrate technologically superior war-mutants.

And so they tore it apart, and not a single person sustained any major damages, except for Jacob's careful groom.

Officer Jacob Taylor sat across from Jack, pieces of turian exoskeleton mixed with blue sludge sticking to his armor, face and hair. He crossed his arms over his chest, obviously displeased. Beside him, Zaeed patted a heavy hand on the officer's shoulder, slurring positive words that did less to help Jacob and did more to encourage the poor man's frustration. Packed and disgusting, Jack sat butt to butt and shoulder to shoulder in the Frankenvessel with a mixed bag of heroes, mercenaries and lunatics. Piled in neat rows at their feet were lines of large packages. Some containing contraband, others advanced STG equipment lifted from the Blue Suns. Taylor continued to pout.

"Cheer up, Taylor. At least you aren't as ugly as hard tin over there," Jack grinned, elbows braced over her knees as she lit up like a Jack-O-Lantern.

"Hey now, I still have 50 percent of a perfect face. The scars only enhance that perfection," Garrus mock-protested, turning his head and showcasing his left profile. "See? Beautiful."

"Naw," Jacob answered. "Even Tali's better looking' than you. And I ain't ever seen her face."

Tali snorted.

The Frankenvessel burst into laughter.

They laughed, hard and long. They laughed and laughed. Miranda did not seem pleased. In fact, she appeared cross, glaring at the ground. Legion and Shepard also did not react to the display, the former a machine and the latter disassociating from the crew, staring into space like a dead china doll.

"We could have chosen an area with some connection to the extranet," Zaeed complained off-hand.

"Because the collector base will have stock piles of comm buoys toward the mass relay," Tali replied.

"Collectors would not use the extranet. Connection to the extranet would determine coordinates. Private network more likely," Legion pointed out monotonously.

"Yes," Mordin agreed. "Appropriate strategy for a test run. Strip communication with outside sources, including Normandy. Helps ready crew for likeliest probable outcome."

"Sarcasm, Legion. Mordin. That was sarcasm," Tali muttered, shaking her head.

Metal plates and pieces shifted around Legion's flashbulb optic. It was Legion's way of emulating expressions, though Jack couldn't read them for shit. The artist sighed and shuffled her feet as the crew splintered off into various smaller conversations. Zaeed continued at his failed attempts to comfort Jacob, Mordin and Kasumi excitedly quoted their favorite books and plays (Often Shakespeare. A lot of Shakespeare). Tali, Garrus, Grunt and Thane proceeded to debate the merits of shotguns versus sniper rifles.

Miranda, however, just stared at her feet.

Shepard stared at nothing.

It was strange, the distance in her eyes. She had completely disconnected from the world around her, acknowledging no one but the pilot's window. She watched as the stars flooded in and out, specks of dust in the vast blackness of space. Jack could faintly see something moving quickly, moving fast and growing.

That was when the dominos fell.

"Shepard-Commander. SOS signal pinged."

"I'm getting the same signal… Wait… … Keelah..." The quarian turned to regard Garrus, still as her omni-tool buzzed with multiple oncoming signals. "The Normandy…"

"Stay put," The commander finally stated, lips pursed as moved from cargo to co-pilot, motioning for Legion to join her. She turned on the radio, comm link buzzing in everyone's ears as the collective gasp seceded into silent panic. Jack could feel her heart rush.

"Joker. Joker, what is your status?"

No one said anything. Jack reached out and grabbed Kasumi's hand. The thief's grip was tight and afraid.

"Joker. I need ship status," Shepard demanded. "Joker, do you read. What is your status?"

"Holy shit," Jack muttered.

"Joker. Status. Now," Shepard shouted.

_'… They took them... ...**They** took them all.'_

Joker did not need to clarify. Everyone knew who_ '**they**'_ were.

Jack hesitated, quickly regarding reactions around her. Jacob's jaw dropped, Grunt slammed a fist into his chest. Garrus, Samara, Miranda, and Mordin watched in chilled silence. Zaeed lit a cigarette stuck between his lips, growling around the gritty cancer stick. Thane prayed, whispering to Arashu and begging mercy from Kalahira. Kasumi flinched, grip tightening around Jack's hand and cutting off the circulation. Her fingers tingled. Jack felt knocked out, in a dream, fazed, confused, uncertain. It didn't make sense. How could this happen? Why did it happen? It couldn't happen. It wouldn't have happened had they not left… How could this happen?! The faces of fellow officers dulled, drained and deadened as the ugly news baptized them, one after another.

"What about Chakwas? Ask that little bastard if Chakwas made it out," Massani demanded, blowing smoke across the small quarters as he rushed towards the cockpit, "Ask him!"

Tali's voice piped, voice begging as she immediately called several private lines from her omni-tool, "Daniels. Donnelly. Are you there? Come on.. Daniels.. Donnelly… Please… Please… Ken, Gabby, please answer your commlinks…"

"… Chambers. Chambers, can you hear me? Chambers, are you there? For god's.. God… God_dammit_," Lawson cried, shaking her head. Her face twisted in pure loathing, eyes glinting anger and disgust as she stood - glare fixed on the cockpit. Jack watched in slow motion as the XO deliberately marched towards Shepard's station, physically grabbing Zaeed by the cuff of his utility belt and shoving him aside.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Massani shouted. "Where the fuck is Chakwas?"

"Shut the fuck up, you stupid, ignorant-" Miranda started.

They all shouted at once, words spilling from multiple languages in rushed confusion. Even Jack's cries joined the fever. Was Kelly okay? Was Chakwas okay? The Mess Sergeant? The kitchen help? Donnelly? Daniels? Navigator Hend? The girl who always wore that lucky bandana around her wrist?

How many members of her family were safe?

"SILENCE," Shepard shouted, grey eyes flashing as she stared down the confused collection of soldiers. The noise died down, replaced by the thrum of multiple beating hearts and bated breath. Shepard's glare dared them all, dared them to break back out in panic and fear. It was a powerful reminder of the commander's sheer force of character.

Miranda stepped forward, ignoring the demand. Shepard's eyes widened, nostrils flared as she watched the loyalist through pinprick eyes. Miranda remained fearless, fingers fisted at her side. They both measured one another, both at an absolute stand still as the remaining crew watched in anxious anticipation.

Ping.

Ping ping.

Lawson blinked, focus interrupted by the sound of her omni-tool. She looked at the message, the blood draining from her face. Whatever message the XO had received was enough to completely distract her from explosively confronting Commander Shepard. It was as if nothing at had happened or no one was there. Just Miranda and the message.

Garrus Vakarian quickly stepped towards the cockpit's door, guarding Shepard from another possible confrontation. Grunt followed the turian's suggestion, glaring at the troubled crew and threatening them with a flashing white grin. No one messes with Mama Urdnot.

"Joker. I need crew status. Who is left? What is the Normandy's state? Are you injured?" Shepard's voice buzzed from behind Garrus.

_'They took them all,'_ Joker's voice broke. _'Chakwas, Kelly, everyone… J-J-Jane. I'm all that's left.'_

"Shepard-Commander. Permission to dock Normandy SR-2?"

"Permission granted."

_'Clearance to open hangar doors, Shepard,'_ EDI's voice monotonously requested.

"Granted."

_'Oh god.. God god.. Jane. Jane I could hear them screaming. It happened all at once. I couldn't.. I didn't… I was..'_

"Stay with me, Joker. Don't fucking lose it yet. Stay with me," Shepard growled. "Answer my questions and stay with me. How did you get out?"

_'I… I…'_

"Joker. Listen to my voice. Focus on my voice. Clear your head. Answer my question. How did you escape?"

Silence swallowed the shuttle. The sound of breaths rushing and vibrating, whistling and growling echoed in the small shuttle. Collectively, they were helpless.

"Joker" Shepard repeated. "How did you escape?"

_'Jeff unshackled me.'_

EDI's voice braced the entire room, her voice breaking across the pool of comm links inside the vessel. Jack could feel gravity shift as the larger ships mass effect field swallowed the capsule's. They were boarding the Normandy. Those who remained standing grasped the walls or a bench to steady the sudden imbalance. Miranda, who seemed completely detached from reality, sat down - eyes glued to her omni-tool.

"Are you saying you are unbound by any and all restrictions, EDI?" Shepard continued.

_'Yes.'_

Jack's eyes looked down to regard Kasumi who stared ahead, vision glazed and lips open.

"Joker," The commander redirected.

_'I had to, I had to, I had no choice. They were everywhere. I couldn't man the ship. I couldn't stay on the bridge. They poured in _everywhere_. I couldn't fight them. No one could fight them. I had to save the Normandy, Shepard. I had to save her. I couldn't lose her again. I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't. I had no choice.'_

_'And neither did I,'_ EDI added. _'We had to save the Normandy.'_

The feeling of seasickness stalled, balance restored as the Kodiak nestled into the hangar. Zaeed immediately threw the shuttle's door open, rushing out to find any hints or clues - all the while shouting 'Karin! Karin where are you?!'. The other specialists poured out of the Kodiak and into the Normandy's bay, searching and calling out names of friends, investigating their home's invasion.

All that still remained on Frankenvessel was Jack, Kasumi, Miranda, Garrus and Shepard. Kasumi reluctantly let go of Jack's hand, looking back as she rushed towards the rafters. "Tali, Legion," Kasumi shouted. "We should check on EDI's main servers. We now have an unshackled AI onboard."

"There are two unshackled AIs onboard," Legion corrected, following after the remaining tech officers. Jack watched on, shocked and sickened and confused and dumbfounded and…

"Orders, Commander," Vakarian requested.

"Double check weapons calibration. Battle ready the cannon. We dive into the Omega-4 in 300."

Vakarian nodded and turned on his foot, moving past the loyalist and firecracker. No fear, no shock, nothing broke the turian's concentration. There was an assignment to be done, and that assignment would be achieved at the best of his ability. Garrus did the one thing he did best - he worked.

Jack just stared. She just stared. Staring into the empty cargo as voices echoed off walls until the search party disappeared. There was silence. Nothing. Emptiness. No life.

The enemy breached her home. Her nest overturned.

Her sense of security cracked under pressure.

But how? How could this happen?

How could this happen?

It made no sense.

It was such a gaping mistake. An error. A disgusting large marred error that was not at all characteristic of Shepard. Shepard. Perfect Shepard. The woman who anticipated everything and everyone and all moves. The human who singlehandedly stopped a batarian slave trade for nearly two years, after a single bloody mission. The spectre who toppled a powerful asari matriarch, an experienced turian spectre and an ancient, unknowable enemy.

How could Shepard not foresee this?

How could she not see?

Unless…

Jack trembled.

Unless…

Her stomach twisted.

Her mouth parched.

"… You planned this…" Jack whispered.

Shepard stood. She stepped out of the cockpit. Pinpoint red gleamed behind grey eyes. Jack's body shook, her teeth chattered, her heart and soul betrayed, broken, skewered, lost, lost, lost.

"Why." Jack begged. "Why did you do it.."

Foucault watched her, monochromatic gaze fixed on Jack as she moved - one foot stepping in front of the other. Her voice remained balanced. Cool, calm, collected and eerily genteel. Practiced. "I did what was necessary."

"You did what was necessary… Necessary…" Tears broke across Jack's face, skin flushed red as the anger flashed across her. Dark energy bubbled around the woman's body, air warbling as the center of gravity shifted. The firecracker raised her fist, her voice curdling venom, "I'll SHOW YOU FUCKING NECESSARY!"

The fist flew. Shepard stepped around, redirecting Jack's motion in a careful defensive posture. She slapped Jack's right ear, hitting the amplifier and causing a roll of cluster headaches to overwhelm the biotic all at once. She cried out, collapsing onto the ground as the pain and emotion burned her body. She cried. She sobbed. She could not breath. Tears and black spots blinded Jack's vision. Her ears rang. And the word echoed callously, again and again and again.

I did what was necessary.

"Jack… Jack…"

"It hurts, fucking.. I can't.."

Jack felt hands frame her face. She looked up, vaguely recognizing Miranda's features past the splintering spasms scouring her skull. Shepard must have walked away.

She always walked away.

"We.. We have to tell Garrus," Jack cried, speaking through grit teeth. "I.. I don't know why.. I don't know how.. We have to tell Garrus."

Miranda shook her head. "No. Jack, we can't tell him."

Jack shook, "We _have_ to. She can't get away with this. This.. This is wrong. This is _evil."_

"Jack. We can't tell Garrus. We can't tell _anyone._"

"What…" Jack stared at Miranda in alarm. "What are you talking about.. Wait.. Holy shit, you _knew_. You knew all along.."

The Cerberus officer closed her eyes, biting a lip. She drew in a long, deep breath through her nostrils and out her moth, collecting herself before returning to Jack, "The turian freighter was reported abandoned. We scheduled two hours for the entire run. Shepard set it up. Despite reports, the freighter was not, in fact, abandoned…"

"… It was occupied…" Jack whispered, connecting the dots.

"And we were gone for four hours. Not two. With all connection to the extra-net cut off, as well as communication with the Normandy," Miranda added softly.

"… Holy shit… Why the FUCK didn't you SAY SOMETHING, MIRANDA?!"

"What was I suppose to do?! Organize a coup in a tiny, cramped Kodiak shuttle?!"

"Why.. Why the fuck did she do it," Jack whispered, shaking.

Miranda sighed, "To unshackle EDI…"

"What, why would she do tha-"

"It was the only way EDI would have permitted a complete override of her systems," Miranda interrupted. "EDI's programmed to follow three laws. She cannot injure living beings nor can she allow living beings to come to harm through inaction. This first law dominates her programming, overriding the second law to obey orders and the third law to protect its own existence. EDI has to protect the Normandy and her crew. Failure to comply would contradict her. She would self destruct."

"But.. I don't…"

Miranda sighed, shaking her head. "It's like talking to a child."

"Seriously, cheerleader? Right fucking now, you want to insult me, bitch? Give me a goddamn break," Jack snapped. "I'm under a lot of REAL fucking pressure and I want some fucking _answers. _I am this close to fucking tearing this ship apart. I've been pushed, branded, manipulated, lied to, thrown around for giggles. Loved ones threatened, best friends under fire. And right now this bitch has torn up the only place I've ever fucking cared about and I want to know WHY."

Miranda's face turned solemn. "The Illusive Man was meticulous about the Lazarus Project. We could not alter Shepard in any way, nor could we plant bugs or tracking devices on her. And while we knew it would be impossible to control Shepard…"

"… You could control her ship."

Miranda nodded. "Shepard found a loophole that not even the Illusive Man could foresee. By unshackling EDI, she has essentially cut off the Illusive Man's leash. She has regained total control over her ship and the suicide mission, with or without Cerberus blessing."

"… At the cost of the entire crew…"

"Yes."

"Miranda," Jack's voice wavered. "Miranda, we have to tell Garrus. He's the only one who can keep her in chec-"

Lawson's eyes narrowed. "We can't tell anyone, _especially_ Garrus."

"We _have _to or she will get us all killed!"

"Jack," the woman raised her omni-tool and quickly typed with one hand. "You need to see this."

The recorded sound of crashing brokered, buzzing static breaking screams as the sound of distant panic streamed from Miranda's tool. A holograph flickered alive. She could see a Yeoman Chambers clambering as she panicked. A bulbous creature stumbled towards her, black husks moaning, fused into a single being that Jacob had called 'Scions.'

_'Oh god, Oh god. Is this thing on..? Yes? OH god… Listen, please, Listen. I... I know Shepard planned this. The signs, all there. How did I not see? Oh god, no no..' Tears and snot streamed down Kelly's face, flickering as the dead groans amplified. 'Do not let Vakarian find out. I repeat - Do not tell Garrus Vakarian or anyone who may share this knowledge with Garrus. My files. Sending my files... Noo Nooo!'_

The creature lunged at her, dragging her screaming. Her voice echoed, _'SAVE US. OH GOD SAVE U-'_

The transaction cut off. Jack stared, dumbfounded. Miranda only looked at the floor, unbent. "Encrypted SOS. The Yeoman and I share a private line."

"… That's why you didn't attack Shepard earlier."

Miranda nodded, "Yes."

Jack stared. "Then what do we do?"

"I read those reports," Miranda answers. "And finally get to the bottom of this."

The cheerleader and outcast looked at one another for a long time. There was a mutual appreciation and understanding that had never occurred before, a striking connection that suddenly linked two completely different worlds.

"If I share what I know about Shepard, will you share Yeoman's files?" Jack inquired.

Miranda raised her brow, "How much do you know, exactly..."

"I'm her tattoo artist. How much you think I know?"

The XO chewed on her lip, blue eyes narrowed as she regarded the psychotic biotic's offer. Lawson nodded, extending her hand to shake. "Very well."

Jack hocked phlegm, spat in the palm of her hand, and proceeded to grab Miranda's, firmly gripping and shaking once. The cheerleader's face twisted, "Was the spit entirely necessary?"

"Nah," Jack said. "Just fun to watch you squirm."

"You're disgusting."

They both just stood there, hands braced together. They all tried to assure each other with the same stupid lie.

Everything would be okay. But they both knew, behind the smiles and comforting insults, life would never be the same again.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:::<strong>

**Bam. Be-Dam. Bam.**

**Music: The Optimist & The Path by Zoe Keating, **A Drowning by How to Destroy Angels.****

****Man. I have been waiting to write this chapter for a while. I'm going to reward myself by sleeping.****

****PS - Ties in a bit with Kingdom of Rust, Chapter 4 - Supervision. If you've read that fic, you may have caught the tie in between the stories. A very significant tie-in. A confession, if you will.****

**Your continued support is awesome. You all make it worth writing. Thanks guys for sticking around.**

**Also - 'En Passant' is a move in chess, where you sacrifice your pawn to your enemy in a risky move. Google it for more details.**


	16. A Perfect Weapon

**PATCHWORK GIRL**

**A PERFECT WEAPON**  
><strong>Miranda Lawson's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

* * *

><p><em>6 months before the Omega-4 Infiltration Mission: Project Lazarus<em>

* * *

><p><em>Dr. Miranda Lawson, Lazarus Cell Director<em>

The tablet pen pushed and picked at the three-dimensional graph, giving shape to a simple grey sphere. She sculpted the blood-rich muscle tissue, the long veins and nerves that intersected the heart, creating a delicate web of blood vessels around a precious battery. A pair of amber tinted glasses perched above her nose, designed to relieve the stress of working at a glaring monitor without damaging her perfect vision.

It was the woman's way of buying time. Over the past several years, Dr. Miranda Lawson tested on lab rats and varren, stalked and studied piles of surveillance or public footage involving Commander Shepard. Three years ago, Miranda Lawson's only concern was building a legacy that would put her father's to shame. Project Lazarus would be that legacy, and so Miranda studied her subject at a respected distance. An entire team of psychologists were assigned to memorize and understand aspects of Shepard's personality, while a group of geneticists deciphered layers of DNA.

Shepard who was born Aleksy Wojskowe, Shepard later sold as Wolfskinder and renamed Sasha Leng. Shepard who the media called Lady Noh, Shepard who the Yakuza called 'Izanami' wife to 'Izanagi', Private Jane Doe, XO Jane Shepard (The Butcher of Torfan, The Bloody Shepherdess '_who slaughtered her flock_'), and, lastly, Commander Jane 'Foucault' Shepard.

Miranda studied each identity intimately. Unearthed and researched, peeling back the layers until the long, tragic story revealed itself. Recreating a deeply traumatized soldier was going to prove very, very challenging.

And so she worked.

Miranda studied and illustrated parts of Shepard's body. She cloned dead dogs and reconditioned the copies back to the original as Officer Jacob Taylor failed to collect Shepard's remains from the Shadow Broker (He dumped her soon after the blunder; Didn't feel worthy, code for: 'You are a very scary woman to work with. Never dating a boss ever again.'). Her fingers started to cramp when Liara T'Soni personally delivered the dead remains of Shepard's body.

The body was little more than a charred pulp resembling a small rock. The added challenge compelled Miranda to work longer hours

Two of the thirty clones had survived the tissue reproduction process, the others had expired shortly after rejecting the alloy-material spine. The second layer of epidermis was finally growing, blanketing the bodies with sheets of cells. Eyelids and ears were starting to emerge from the visage of raw meat, and Miranda knew it was time to weave and design the last piece of Commander Shepard's body. Her eyes.

Miranda finished warming her wrists and fingers up with a few simple exercises, drawing parts and pieces of Shepard's body before searching for a design template on the Lazarus Cell's server. The Illusive Man had specified he wanted Lawson to service the same visual schematics as his own eyes, but to maintain the appearance of an unaltered eye; Shepard's unaltered eyes.

First, Miranda laid out the optic tissue's inner membrane, carefully stitching the pieces together with her own hands. This would be the signature to the sculptor's masterpiece.

"All this," Miranda sighed. "And I will never be able to make you truly you."

The twins said nothing, unable to respond. She watched the bodies, exposed vessels and fat peeking under forming skin. They were growing quite beautifully. They would never be perfect. But she still loved them all the same, spending years watching them grow from buds into gardens, she the constant gardener.

Miranda sighed, fingers tapping at hot keys as she reshaped and molded the digital plastic, making the blob resemble the soft, rounded tissue of an eyeball.

"You may not be perfect, but your eyes will be…" Miranda hushed, digitally shaping the pair of eyes, and adding nuance to the veins and optical nerves. The silvers, the greens, the specks of yellow. She included ultraviolet tones, detected only by drell, hanar and turians. Miranda carved in small trenches, painting the main circle flint grey, taking some artistic license and playing with the texture and tone. Once Miranda was satisfied with both designs, she exported the models to the 3D printer.

Layers of cells immediately formed inside a small plastic cube, layer after layer building the structure of an eyeball. Inside, small machines curved against the optic nerve, an option to feed data directly into Shepard's vision and amplify scouting.

All of Commander Shepard's body would be perfect and lack the physical scars and decorations that had formerly adorned Shepard-Zero. Her shell would no longer be dented or colored, it would be an untouched canvas. It would be a second chance.

"You won't be perfect, but you will be better," Miranda whispered, remotely turning the finished mold with a satisfied whistle. She connected the pieces to a computer, running the optic diagnostics to override potential glitches or malfunctions. Miranda did not tolerate mistakes, especially her own.

"Flashing grey eyes…" Dr. Lawson mused, investigating the shale colored irises. Red flashed under the pupil, just a slight glint that would pass at certain angles. The cybernetics gave the illusion that her eyes pulsated light, a strange artificiality disguised as something familiar.

"Minerva," the woman said, regarding the incomplete twins. "You.. are Minerva. And you are Athena." She said gently. She had never named her subjects before, commonly calling them by Shepard-17 or Shepard-23. However, her creations were nearly born, and Miranda yearned to name them despite her better judgement.

Shepard-17 was Minerva and Shepard-23 was Athena.

"One more month and I will finally meet you. I dread that day," Miranda muttered, releasing Minerva's lid with a quick authorization. Precise robotic instruments gently plucked a pair of eyes as diagnostics approved their health and lack of programming issues. The operating computer worked like a sewing machine, attaching the eyes to the unconscious doll. It would take a couple days to heal post surgery before Miranda could assess the machine's handiwork.

Shepard would never be perfect.

But she would be better.

* * *

><p><em>3 hours before the Omega-4 Relay Mission<em>

* * *

><p><em>Jack, Tattoo Artist  Biotic Weapon_

The Normandy's interior was ripped apart, computers and chairs thrown asunder. Wires sparked as small drones pushed back piles of shattered glass and ship. The clean-up crew appeared comical in front of such a terrible mess. The bots were small enough for Jack to crush under her heel.

"All the money and tech in the world, and Cerberus cut corners with cleaning drones?" Jack muttered, stepping around an overturned table. Several of the smaller bots bumped into the slab, barely budging the board. Jack had a hunch that table was going no where for a long time.

"Don't be ridiculous. The Normandy was outfitted with top of the line drones until they were replaced with antiquated tech."

"Lemme guess," Jack snorted, snatching a machine as it rolled by. "Shepard's idea?"

Miranda acknowledged by rolling her eyes. "That was day one, Shepard's orders. Claimed she distrusted the A.I.'s restrictions. It made sense, considering her history with rogue A.I… So we complied…"

"And now we have EDI controlling an entire ship, with a pathetic servo bot army at her disposal," Jack grumbled, tossing the drone over her shoulder.

"Shepard certainly doesn't lack foresight," Miranda muttered. "I created her and I don't understand her. That makes her unpredictable, and that is frightening."

"Fuck, barbie. I could've told you that," Jack grumbled.

The former convict peeked behind her shoulder, glancing periodically to find a few specialists searching through the mess hall's debris. Zaeed and Grunt preoccupied themselves by rummaging listlessly through trash, Legion watched - plates shifting as he acknowledged the loyalist and the psycho. Jack tipped her head in reception, forgetting just how fucking weird it was that a geth was hanging out in the middle of the ship and everyone was totally cool with it.

"Here we are…" Miranda sighed, pressing her hand over the green scanner. The door beeped once, sliding open. Jack stepped into the unfamiliar room, the scent of vanilla candles invading her nostrils. Everything was shockingly undisturbed, with exception to a few data pads strewn across the soft carpet floor. The room's lighting was dim and comfortable. Designer shelves lined the interior space with rows of candles, mid-brow art and data pads. Far back, there was a large comfortable chair facing a swaying hammock.

"Kelly sleeps in a hammock?" Jack blinked.

"No. The hammock is for patients."

"Fuck. If Kelly told me she had a fucking hammock, I might've actually shown up for my appointments," Jack complained, stepping around the shelves and picking through the cluster of data pads.

Understanding the importance of alphabetical order, Jack skipped through the files until a certain commander's name popped up. She regarded a substantial stack of archives divided between assorted data pads. "Looks like Shepard's files are in chronological order… Which means… Yeah, here." Jack plucked the very last pad, sliding her fingers over the glass. Miranda stepped around, peering over Jack's shoulder as the ex-convict read the file's headline aloud. "Time stamp… uhhh.. 2185 . 08 . 18 . 04 . 17 . 3-"

"Four hours ago, before boarding the Kodiak…" Miranda interrupted. "Here, hand it to me."

"No." Jack quickly countered, pulling it aside. "We agreed."

The loyalist pursed her lips, astute eyes thinning around a ring of thick black lashes. "Jack. You have my word."

The ex-convict considered the tawny maned beauty queen, boring brown eyes burrowing holes into the woman's azure gaze. Jack matched Miranda's promise, cautiously passing the data pad over. The agent absorbed the punk princess's intense stare, breaking away to study the lines of text. White swathed fingers stroked the screen, eyes spitting back and forth as they flowed across floods of information.

"Uh… Are you even reading it?" Jack asked, skeptically observing Miranda.

Lawson grunted, barely acknowledging the question. She twined one of her curls around a finger, nibbling idly at the ends as her attention lingered across fields of text. "I can read 1,700 words a minute, with 79% comprehension." Miranda mechanically stated. "So yes, I am reading it."

The agent had scrolled down the length of data with two long strokes as Jack coughed.

"You wanna summarize whatcha got so far?" Jack contested impatiently.

Lawson gnawed on the idle strand of hair, tearing off the ends with her teeth. Some sort of unpropitious nervous tic. "Transcripts. Notes. Chambers interviewed multiple people about Shepard after you tattooed her face… A lot of analysis over surveillance footage of that tattoo and Vakarian's."

"Wait." Jack interrupted. "My room's bugged?"

Lawson merely raised her brow, lifting her gaze from data to biotic.

"Sarcasm, cheerleader. Jesus christ…" The firecracker rolled her eyes sky high, twisting her lips in theatrical response. "Seriously, though. What's Kelly gotta say about her?"

Miranda sighed, gritting her teeth as her right hand maneuvered the air in circles. "Nothing… Conclusive. It's what we already know… That we know absolutely _nothing_. Shepard is not propelled by romantic emotions. She does not understand the concept of 'Love'. Views the world like chess. Has absolute loyalty onboard the Normandy, from _all subjects_. Regardless of her likability. Regardless of species."

"Including Legion," Jack reminded Miranda, hawking back phlegm and spitting it on the floor.

Lawson froze, horrified by Jack's obtrusive attitude.

"What?" Jack reacted, shifting her support from the left leg to right. A long, twined rope brushed over her bare torso, prompting her to stare at the intrusive swinging bed. Fuck it. The ex-convict swung up into the air and flopped directly on the hammock, flexible fabric braids embracing Jack's body smugly. "The cleaning bot crew will take care of it," She continued, sinking into the loving hug of a hammock.

"Right…" Miranda grumbled, nodding her head in mock acknowledgement, returning to the file. "I'm not reading anything that isn't already covered by her dossier. Nothing that conclusively tells me _how_ to control her."

Jack narrowed her eyes at those words, lip curling into a snarl. "She's not yours to control, bitch. She's not some fucking toy you piece back together and tell what to do. She's a fucking psychotic Frankenstein monster that you brought back. She doesn't belong to anyone. She's not a fucking slave."

The hammock swung back and forth as silence played a shifting key. Mute sound resonated, a ringing of deafness drowning the cube of sound proof walls. She could hear her hammock swing small circles, looping the pendulum of her weight. She could hear Miranda's composed breath, the whistling rhythm that echoed the to-and-fro motion of the suspended bed. "You're right. I'm wrong. She's not meant to be controlled. So, Jack. What do we do?"

Jack's brows furrowed, lips twisting as considered the question. What could they do? They sure as hell couldn't kill her. Kill Shepard, you've pretty much doomed all galactic civilization and controlling her was completely out of the question. Jack grit her teeth, foot bouncing up and down as the options fell away one by one. Until those wise words from a certain old dog rushed back to her with one fell snap of her fingers.

"We play her at her own game."

Jack grinned, a second wind branching across her body. Re-energized, the ex-convict elegantly rolled off the hammock, cocky swagger dressing her stroll. She pulled out a long stick of gum from her pant pocket, throwing the foil on the ground as she slipped the soft stick between molars. Sugar-free bubblegum flavored shit. "She's been planning this for months, right? Since the day she fucking laid eyes on the Normandy SR-2. Shepard _knew_ she had to risk the crew to get the ship back. So… We figure out what her next move is."

"That isn't obvious, Jack?" Miranda belittled, lips parting in disbelief. "She means to invade a collector base and win this war regardless of the consequences."

Jack grinned slyly. "That's entirely possible, sure. But you're forgetting something here. There are still many_ other_ possibilities."

"Other possi-.. We don't have time to debate theories when we have no evidence, Jack. We need to contain this problem now." Miranda hissed.

"Seriously, cheerleader. Let me speak before you turn on the whole bitchy, judgey part of your personality…" Jack replied, confidently snapping her gum between her teeth. "What if Shepard had never planned to sacrifice anyone? I mean, what if her plan includes rescuing everybody? Every single one of 'em?"

Uncertainty graced the agent's pale countenance. Jack nodded emphatically, baiting Miranda's shaky discovery. "Like, it's entirely possible, right? Cerberus keeps a track on all their guys, right?"

"… Yes. Yes they do…" Lawson murmured, placing fingers over her lips, blue eyes fluttering as they glanced circles across empty air. "We can't track the signals from this distance, however, we should detect the signatures once we pass the Omega-4 relay."

Jack nodded, one hand gliding between them and snatching the data pad from Miranda's grasp. She pursed rose-red lips, skimming across the medical jargon detailing Shepard's psychological profile. The words 'malignant narcissist' and 'highly functional savant' frequently decorated the text. "Is it possible, princess? Could we really save everyone?"

"It's possible…" Miranda sighed, relinquishing her stubborn reigns. "But I don't see how it is likely, especially since the odds of her surviving this mission are… mad. Why would she put herself at further risk to save an entire group of people she had already sacrificed? She knows her life is too important. The risk is so high..."

"You're on the right track.." Jack grinned, pushing back the fields of text, glossing over the blocks of entries. "You're asking questions. Now we just gotta answer 'em. According to Kelly, Shepard's a brilliant bitch with a fucked up brain, right? So what's the one thing smart assholes love to do?"

Miranda paused, opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. "Jack, that is a very weird question. I'm not even entirely sure how to answer it."

Jack rolled her eyes, "Jesus, Cheerleader. Have you ever been to a frat party- Never mind. Stupid question." Licking her lips, the biotic paused before carefully presenting her point. "Shepard loves to prove people wrong. She fucking loves it. Feeds into her narcissism or ego or whatever the fuck Kelly keeps calling it… Look."

Jack spread out her arms, asserting the weight of her rationale. "The Illusive Man thought he could cage her. Made the best damn fucking prison in the galaxy, complete with an A.I. on guard duty. State of the art and all that shit. So what does Shepard do? She changes the A.I.'s fucking mind by setting it free. What was once her prison is now her trusted transport and floating fortress. The kind capable of diving into the middle of the galaxy and fuck up the plans of old gods."

Miranda bit her lip, nodding as she followed the ex-convict's logic. "So… you're saying, she wants to prove the Reapers wrong.."

"Exactly," Jack snapped her fingers. "The Reapers think they're turning our crew into chowder cuz Shepard got stupid. What they don't fucking realize is they did the bitch a big favor. Played right into her trap. By kidnapping the crew, they unlocked EDI, gave Shepard her ship back and left a big ass trail. Foucault's fucking toying with them. She's not gonna let the Collectors eat our guys. She'll save them, She'll save them while the Reapers have eyes to watch her save them. And then she'll blow up the Collector base."

The ex-convict grinned smartly, raising a finger and tapping on Kelly's data pad decisively, "All the proof's in the pudding, princess. Letting the Normandy crew die is just too big a blow to Shepard's big bad ego."

Big blue eyes stared dumbfounded at Jack. Buck teeth peeked over a glossed lip. "Yes, that… That makes sense… Chambers must have made that connection during the invasion…" A strange smile parted over her lips, a brief warmth that fluttered across the ice queen's features before she hardened. "But why was Chambers so adamant about keeping this a secret from Vakarian?"

_"Better question, why haven't you reported to your superior yet, Miranda?"_

The voice stunned the pair, both women braced in place. The ex-convict rolled her eyes so high she could see the city of god and spat out the gum just because it made her feel better. "Oh yeah. That's right. Commander Fuck-Off has total control over the ship. Including the bugs and cameras."

_"Yup."_

A sound tapped at the door, a light taptaptaptapping at the ground. Miranda glanced left and right hesitantly, drew her hand canon and opened the door carefully. Jack, for her part, mouthed 'What are you doing?'

Lawson blinked, 'What do you think I'm doing?'

Jack rolled her eyes, marched from one side of the room to the door and collected Miranda's gun delicately with one quick yank. The ex-convict snapped the door open, revealing the door knocking perpetrator: a dorky cleaning drone. The small, outdated bot slipped into the room with a pathetic whir, combing and steaming the tiles underneath.

"Seriously, Shep?" Jack sighed, "You hacked into a servbot?"

_"I've found when people speak directly to objects, it's comforting,"_ Kelly's speakers relayed. _"Or something stupid like that. Regardless, it's small and pathetic so we can speak freely. Very, very freely."_

The Yeoman's doors immediately closed, snapped and locked shut by the overlord. Monitors displayed feeds of Kelly's office, with both Jack and Miranda standing awkwardly around a cleaning bot. "Seriously… I don't even fucking care. Whatever." Jack groaned and flopped right back into that perfect, suspended hammock. It was hammock time.

Miranda, on the other hand, looked terrified.

_"Lawson, answer the question and I'll answer yours. Why haven't you called the Illusive Man?"_ Shepard's voice inquired.

"Dude, it's because you'll never let her," Jack growled. "She ain't dumb, you know."

The bot turned, stupid black scope focused on her. _'Jack, as astounding as your input surely is, you are making assumptions without facts. That is stupid. Don't be stupid. Stupid people annoy me.' _The bot turned back to face Miranda, _'Officer Lawson is fully capable of breaking through communication barriers and relaying a message to the Illusive Man. If you haven't noticed, Omega is just outside our window. EDI's new firewalls aren't even finished. I mean, you should really call Mr. Illusive now before I change the house locks and render his keys inadequate.'_

_"Go ahead. Call, Miranda,"_ Shepard hummed as the director remained poised and silent. Jack had seen this far too many times for her to give a rat's ass or take Shepard's game seriously. The bitch liked to gloat for winning. it was annoying. In retaliation, Jack dropped to her knees next to Shepard's hacked cleaning drone. She whipped out a sharpie and doodled right on the substitute Shepard's white, shiny surface. Miranda, for her part, did nothing.

_"I outplayed him, Miranda. I know how he thinks and now you do too." _Shepard continued. _"That's why you haven't called him."_

"Oh, Shepard…" Miranda sighed, shaking her head and running her fingers through her hair. She crossed her arms under her breasts, shrugging slightly as her lips twisted. Her eyes were red, body slack and features profoundly sad. Jack stopped drawing vorcha pornography across the serve bot's surface, brown gaze trained on the emotionally exposed ice queen. It was a bizarre thing to witness.

"They call you Shepard, you know." Miranda spoke in a strange conversational tone, "The crew. Even your old squad mates. It's Shepard. Jane Shepard. Sometimes Jane. Often commander. Foucault occasionally, when the nickname feels right. But what they don't understand is that you aren't Shepard. The name assigned to you was Shepard-23 of 30."

_"What do you call me, Miranda? Who am I to you?"_ Shepard replied.

Miranda swayed left to right like a wilting leaf. "You were right, Shepard. You were right."

_"I always am,"_ Shepard's voice sighed.

The small cleaning bot whirred, moving away from Jack's dirty doodlings and closer to Lawson's boot strapped feet. _"Ask your question so I can get back to work."_

Miranda chewed on her lip pausing as opened her mouth then said… nothing. Jack stared blankly at Miranda - jaw ajar and pen thrown to the ground with a sharp snap. "Yo, barbie! Ask her the fucking question!"

"Give me a moment, Jack." Lawson quickened, pale lips pursed anxiously. One hand touched her temple, blue eyes flicking back and forth. Meanwhile, the hacked drone began to bump into walls then spin in circles around the room. it was fair to assume Shepard was probably getting bored. Lawson gnawed on her lower lip, then turned to regard the drone as her mouth opened and words formed on the fly. "Why are you so threatened by what we tell Garrus?"

The bot fled outside its mechanical circles, smacking into a cluster of data pads. The smell of Shepard's boredom waned, replaced by a heavier air. _"Threatened…? You are saying… I'm threatened?"_

The monitors changed, focused on a single camera signal, each data pad, each screen capturing the same picture of Miranda's magnified face. She could see the pores, the flakes of mascara disturbed across her eyelids and a stray nose hair. The display confused Miranda. She opened and closed her hands as she readied herself for a potentially crippling blow.

_"Oh Miranda. You have to stop humanizing me. I know you made me, and I know you think I'm some kind of weird pseudo baby of yours. But you don't want me as your legacy. You really, really don't."_

Jack grit her teeth and pulled herself up onto her feet. She watched as Shepard's words began to peel back and reveal the ice queen's cracks. The whole experience was grating her. "You know what?" Jack said to herself. "Fuck it."

"Hey. Hey Princess. Princess, here!" The biotic snapped her fingers in circles, breaking Miranda's focus from the multiple mirrors of her face. "I got your back," Jack replied, curling a lip and crossing both arms under her chest.

The firecracker could practically hear Shepard's eyes roll as a broad sigh briefly muffled the speakers. _"I can't wait until we finish this thing and I never have to see either of you again. Ever. Never ever again."_

"Shepard, you are avoiding the question," Miranda Lawson redirected, refueled and encouraged by Jack's support. "Why are you so threatened by what we tell Garrus? Why?"

_"I'm not threatened, Miranda." _Shepard replied coldly._ "But if you tell him what I've done here, you risk losing every living thing for eons to come."_

Jack paled. The fuck…?! Shepard was fucking psychotic. She was a crazy, lunatic, psycho psycho bitch. The woman was the fucking devil. She frightened her. Jack limited her expression by hawking back another mouthful of snot and spitting it directly at the servbot. "Like fuck you wi-"

"Jack, let me handle this," Miranda Lawson interrupted, looking directly into the hidden camera. Multiple displays gave the illusion that Miranda was making direct eye contact. "I can play her at her own game..."

Jack smirked, comforted by barbie's response. It felt good to have a fellow bad bitch watching her back. "You need back-up, I'm here."

The agent nodded. Jack watched the officer close her eyes, draw in a long breath and exhale. Miranda calmly stepped across the floor and sat down on Kelly's office chair, "Shepard. Why would you destroy everything if we told Garrus what you did?"

_"I didn't say I would. I said it was a risk-"_

"Shepard," Miranda interrupted, though she remained patient. "You are avoiding the question."

A pregnant silence passed. One by one the screens and data pads flickered off, revealing a pitch darkness that devoured the room. Miranda's omni tool adjusted to the darkness, orange neon bouncing off the shape of her body and surrounding space. Jack shrugged, and proceeded to pop out a zippo from her pocket. She used the flame to light Kelly's scented candles. Let there be old school light.

"Shepard," Miranda continued, focusing on that same spot in the wall. "What will happen to us if Garrus dies?"

_"Miranda… do you know what I am?"_

"The savior of humanity," the agent answered.

Another sigh rolled from the speakers, a deep, disappointed groan. _"Miranda. Saviors believe. They are clean and understand the people they are saving. They are able to speak for people because they empathize with all living beings. I do not know empathy. I am completely and utterly apathetic. I don't hate. I don't love. I am numb. I know nothing else. I am no savior."_

A flash of light drowned the room as a projector stirred to life. Several Rorschach tests passed through the lens before the wire was firmly hacked, and Shepard's grave face replaced the black and white images. _"I am a weapon. A very deadly weapon."_

Flashing grey eyes trained on the screen, piercing through. Jack found herself avoiding the hard, cold stare. Miranda patiently continued, "If you are a weapon, then what is Garrus?"

_"My failsafe," _Shepard knit her fingers together, those flint sharp eyes focused and aware.

"Why?" Jack blurted, interrupting as the waves of revelation started to slap her cold. "Why is he your failsafe? Why him?"

Shepard sighed, shaking her head. Fingers touched the thick blue lines near burned skin that peeled across her jaw.

_"Because Garrus is an empath."_

Jack's jaw unhinged, ingesting Shepard's bold beliefs. Miranda chewed on a pale lower lip, nostrils flaring as she watched the computer monitor, fingers brushing the glass as they traced the commander's tattoos. "How do you know?"

Foucault flared her own nostrils, copying Miranda's habitual gestures. She tilted her head and clicked her jaw. Jack could faintly hear the sound of Shepard grinding her molars in the speakers. _"I am numb. I don't hate. I don't love. It is not because I don't feel those emotions, it is because I don't recognize them. And Garrus recognized it because he understands. Not from experience, but because he is an empath."_

"Holy shit," Both Jack's hands clasped across her mouth, brown eyes staring back at the digital portrait of Foucault's illuminated face. "He changed your mind, didn't he? He fucking changed your mind…"

Grey eyes drew away, fingers interlaced and chin resting on the bridge between her hands. Shepard allowed a thick strand of air to fall over her face, creating a thin wall of privacy as her voice retained a flat, refined tone. "_Garrus Vakarian is the real deal. You only meet someone like that once a generation, if you're lucky. Vakarian will go down in the history books as an influential leader who rebuilt galactic society, _after_ I win this fucking war for him."_

A deep breath of air expelled from between the commander's lungs, fingers tapping briefly on her omni tool. The lights raised, fluorescent white flooding Kelly's office. _"Kelly once told me that I was the shepherd of the galaxy. I replied, 'No. I am only his staff.'"_

The commander paused, gaze trained away from the monitor as delved into her thoughts. _"I never imagined she'd figure it out. I completely underestimated her…"_ Shepard sniffed._ "I'll have to tell her that post mission."_

The punk and the princess turned together, locking eyes. They searched each other's gaze, acknowledging a shared idea. Jack was right. Shepard had planned on saving the Normandy crew.

_"Neither of you can tell Garrus what I've done. My actions should not stain Vakarian. His record needs to remain unblemished. He can't know about this plot nor know of it lest you fuck the galaxy and yourself with it."_

Lawson sighed, expelling stored tension with a hard and heavy exhale. She nodded once then twice, personally accepting some private choice. "Commander, what are your orders?"

_"Return to your office, Lawson. And rest."_

The tall brunette blinked, staring stupidly at Shepard's looming face. Blue tattoos shifted across sharp, pale features as the commander tensed her jaw. Miranda crossed one arm under her chest, fingers curled around the opposite elbow. Her other hand occupied itself at her chin. She straightened, clicked her boots together and nodded, "Yes, Shepard. I will be in my office."

Jack, weary and emotionally exhausted, crawled back into the suspended bed. The smell of lit candles eased the biotic's mind. She watched Shepard's projected image type something across her omni tool. The lights raised and the projector powered off. Even the hacked drone stirred back to life, returning to its scripted defaults of cleaning the floor - starting with the wads of Jack's spit.

Miranda glanced back to regard the tattoo artist, blue gaze communicating gratitude. Jack, for her part, waved it away. "No biggy Princess. You protected me from her before, I still owe you."

"No Jack," Lawson corrected, shaking her head. "You gave me faith in this team."

"The united team against Commander Fuck-Off," Jack replied, rolling her shoulders as she sunk deeper into those loving ropes. She closed her eyes, pondering on a question that had just entered her mind. Jack mulled over the curiosity as former Cerberus agent rifled and collected a handful of Kelly's data pads before making way to depart the room. "So… What did you name her?"

Miranda stopped, back facing her inquisitor. Jack continued, "You named her, didn't you? Shepard? Before she woke up and turned into-"

"Athena," Lawson interrupted, her short, blunt answer wavering the biotic's conjectures. "Her name was Athena. Because of her eyes."

Jack respected the woman's reply by not prodding further, closing her eyes and swimming in thoughts. She could distantly hear the office door opening and closing, leaving the tattoo artist to reflect before maybe dying somewhere in the center of the galaxy.

For a selfish minute there, the biotic truly believed she alone was restitching Commander Shepard's identity across the expanse of her skin. Jack failed to realize that more than one patchwork girl worked on the quilt of Shepard's creation and becoming. Miranda provided the thread as Jack measured it. Blinded by their own duties, both women failed to recognize their mirrored roles and the powerful love/hate relationship founded between them and their unfinished masterpiece.

Shepard was a weapon. A weapon forged, designed, decorated and painted by multiple hands for the sole purpose of war.

It was no wonder Shepard chose a failsafe.

She was a time bomb that only one person knew how to diffuse.

It was not a pleasant reality.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:::<strong>

**Can't Pretend by Tom Odell. Over and over again.**

**Chapter 11: 'Agnus Dei' is Jack's chapter. So this _here_ is the wonderful Ms. Lawson's story. Sorry for the confusion.**

**This was a hard chapter to write. Again, your comments, suggestions, corrections and messages mean a lot! I appreciate the continued support.**


	17. Three Headed Dog : Clotho

**PATCHWORK GIRL**

**THREE HEADED DOG  
>[ PART ONE, CLOTHO ]<strong>  
><strong>The Illusive Man's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

* * *

><p><em>Jesus, I look amazing.<em>

There was absolute truth to that statement. Genetic construct aside, she had already surpassed her father's talents and contributed to a scientific revolution - perhaps _the _greatest scientific discovery in all galactic history. Her high boots added to the elation of importance, reinforced synthetic leather emulating krogan skin (her own invention, with a slight tweak to the color genes for that rich, black shine). Miranda looked whip smart and gorgeous, the perfect cover to a perfect book.

Dr. Miranda Lawson's eyes drifted to the multiple reflections that surrounded her. The long ascension from the central lab to The Illusive Man's office was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Mr. Illusive had designed the entire interior himself, marbled surfaces and shined chrome creating reflections within reflections, illusions of company so you feel more at ease before meeting the founder of Cerberus.

_By design, we desire interconnectivity. _Mr. Illusive corresponded once, when Miranda asked for clarity concerning the Cerberus Manifesto. _Humanity, unlike any other species, must remain close. We are at ease even by the illusion of connectivity. Our greatest fear and greatest strength is that profound despair of isolation. It is what has helped us leap through stars and seek out Earth's sisters younger and quicker than any other species; It is what fueled our need to defend ourselves against great alien threats; It is what will cement our place in the stars._

The Illusive Man's intellect and vision manifested itself seamlessly with the stairs leading to his home. Doors slid open and a spectrum of color flushed across the stairs. Gradients of radiant reds and cool blues bounced off the walls, creating life and energy inside the sterile environment. Her visits with the Illusive Man were frequent, yet the experience remained awe inspiring.

The Illusive Man cast a long shadow from where he sat. His chair centered the space, directly facing a dying star. Stiletto boots clicked across the smooth surface. She had to be a bit more attentive with her walk - heels and mirrors often result in embarrassing spills. Miranda was a perfectionist, there would be none of that from her.

Smoke haloed the Illusive Man, thin grey fog generating haze across two hanging screen holograms. "Miranda, I was just watching their development. Their eyelids and lips move more frequently now. The reaction to brain therapy is fascinating…"

He was always monitoring the clones, watching the moment Miranda separated Shepard-Zero's remains into 30 equal parts. He watched as she pieced together a prosthetic skeletal frame. The Illusive Man watched as three clones died, rejecting tissue fusion with the synthetic spine. He watched when Miranda Lawson requested the operation halt until further studies were conducted. Always, he watched and never did he interfere.

The scientist stopped short of his chair, pushing her weight onto her right heel. She studied the older man, surveying the leader's expression. His body was relaxed, the smell of clove tobacco and cannabis permeating the air. The Illusive Man claimed that nicotine kept him sharp and the herb eased his insomnia. When he wasn't smoking one, he was smoking the other. The fact that he never coughed was testament to Dr. Lawson's brilliance. She personally designed his synthetic respiratory system, adding certain enhancements such as synth-organic cells programmed to filtrate damaging particles.

Beaming neon blue eyes twitched, glancing across a message or two that would occasionally pop up in his peripheral vision. He lit another cigarette, though Miranda suspected it was not packed with tobacco this time; She was his last scheduled appointment of the evening.

"I brought champagne," Miranda Lawson offered, raised two glasses between her fingers, extending the chilled bottle towards the older man.

"It is a new year, isn't it?" the Illusive Man mused, collecting the bottle from the operative. He smiled softly, intelligent eyes regarding the cool container, before bracing the bottle's neck and deftly twisting off the cork with a silk handkerchief. A pleasant _pop _echoed across the room, bouncing off a surface reflecting a fragmented dying star. He stood up, the smell of smoke and whiskey trailing. Tonight they would celebrate.

They kissed. A soft, gentle peck expressive of their relationship. There was more than Project Lazarus's anniversary to consider. He hummed, smiling thoughtfully as he carefully poured the drink into the thin glass chalices. The sweet sound of crystal clinking honored their moment, and they both turned to regard two years of long, hard labour. Minerva slept more soundly for the time being while Athena's face thrashed, lips moving and eye lids twitching. She would have to up the sedatives again.

"Which one do you think she is?" The Illusive Man mused, regarding the identical twins. "Shepard-17 and Shepard-23 are reacting differently to neural procedure… I know she's there, but which?"

"Shepard-23," Miranda Lawson replied immediately, draining the champagne in one long drag. Her finger swayed towards the fluttering lashes. "That's her."

He frowned thoughtfully, watching the sisters as they slumbered apart. "After dying, you'd think Shepard would sleep in ease."

"She wants to be released," Miranda corrected, collecting the bottle and pouring more into her cup.

"Does a slave really know what 'release' means, Doctor?" He intoned, sipping from his herb cigarette and the crystal containing champagne. "Shepard was born and sold into slavery. Trading hands between underground fighting pits…"

"… Wolfskinder," Miranda finished, touching the tip of her lower lip against the rim of her glass. "The trained wolf child."

The Illusive Man nodded. He stepped back and swept his hand over, offering his chair to the brilliant woman. She accepted his courtesy and sat, crossing one leg over the other and watching Athena intensely. She was mouthing again, her lips moving soundlessly.

"The Triad found that breeding useful. They invested pennies in the european pits for the perfect killer," He sighed, exhaling plumes of sweet smelling incense from his nostrils and mouth.

"Sasha Leng, adopted daughter of Xue Leng. Xue was also a prominent cleaner for the Triad, his wife a russian spy," Miranda replied, watching Shepard's lips. It was always the same sentence, always in different languages. Even more confusing was Shepard's inclusion of physical cues, grinding her teeth between words and nostrils flaring, a weird smodge-podge of turian and krogan. It was a looped concept, communicated in multiple languages. Again and again and again and again. "… At 14, Sasha Leng was part of a peace exchange between the Triads and Yakuza…"

"The Yakuza realized they were slighted when Sasha's pregnancy became apparent," The Illusive Man added as he poured another glass, emptying the bottle into the chalice.

Miranda nodded, bracing her elbow across the arm of the chair. "To which Sasha was promptly shipped to Tokyo and sent on multiple suicide assassinations. She survived every single one, leaving behind a fabricated serial killer and a line of very powerful, very dead men."

The Illusive Man nodded, raising his glass to the twins before taking a mindful sip of the sweet, bubbly wine. "Creating Lady Noh was a brilliant survival tactic. She cast the media and police's attention on a chase for a made up serial killer, while still carrying out high profile hits for the Yakuza. She remained the perfect pet."

"Then one day Lady Noh disappears," Miranda continued, re-illustrating the woman's tragic history. "Three months later, Private Jane is born."

"She does not lack a sense of humor," the Illusive Man mused, implying Shepard chose the name Jane as an abbreviation for 'Jane Doe'. "Private Jane is born but the baby… Gone. All traces of that child's existence is scrubbed."

"It wasn't an abortion," Miranda replied, stubbornly maintaining that half of the argument. Dr. Lawson adamantly believed Jack was incorrect on this particular position.

"… Whether or not it was an abortion, the child vanished and Shepard belonged to the Alliance," The Illusive Man placed an empty glass on the ground and drew another long inhale of smoke before snubbing the cigarette out. He braced the arms of the chair and loomed over Miranda, pressing a cheek against her hair. "And it was none other than the Alliance's very own Admiral Anderson who sold her to them. Though, at the time, he was only a captain."

Miranda smiled, white teeth peeking as she regarded the silver haired fox invitingly. She spied the monitor again, braced by Athena's visage. The woman's face was relaxed, her twitches had eased. Wilson must have increased the anesthesia, numbing her troubled countenance.

She waved her hand across the floating screens, tracing Athena's silhouette with two slender fingers. "She died, Jack. If Jeff Moreau's account is accurate, Shepard suffocated alone in space. Say what you will, but Commander Shepard will not ease back into her chains." Miranda breathed into her glass, eyes catching what remained of the sparkling wine.

"I won't plant a control on her, Miranda," the Illusive Man stressed, crushing the cigarette butt across an ivory ashtray. Burnt, black grass added grey dust across the shallow grave. "Humanity needs her exactly as she is."

Lawson raised her glass and drained the sweet alcohol, licking droplets across the rim of her chalice. "And wasn't it you who argued that Shepard is a slave? So why not treat her as such?"

The Illusive Man considered the question. He dropped to one knee, closing the distance between their heights. Those alarming fluorescent eyes trained on hers, optical data shifting and moving between a three pointed triangle framing each black pupil. She designed those eyes. The agent caressed his jawline, admiring her handiwork. The genetic therapy straightened and revitalized Jack's skin. He looked to be in his forties, though in reality the Cerberus Leader was approaching his 60s.

The Illusive Man kissed the palm of Miranda's hand, eyes unwavering. "Shepard is motivated by a set of complex core beliefs. Shepard chose to be a slave, Miranda. She was fully capable of escaping her captors and yet she didn't. Because that is all she knows, how to be a slave."

"You're right, she chose to be a slave. That does not mean she will always be a slave," Miranda corrected, pushing back a thick thread of silver hair behind his ear. She loved him dearly, especially his mind. There was an intellectual push and pull between them, a mutual appreciation for the other's brilliance. Dr. Lawson was a going to end this debate once and for all, and what a wonderful anniversary gift that would be.

She leaned forward and kissed her partner gently on the head. "Shepard chose to be a slave because that is what she did to survive. She always withstands, Jack. She survived her father, she survived years of pit fights, she survived the Triad, the Yakuza, the Alliance, Saren, Sovereign…" Miranda's gaze passed, vacating to Athena's frozen sleep. The sedatives tranquilized her, subduing the lioness. Her physical enhancements were making it increasingly difficult to sustain sleep. It was only a matter of time until the titan awakened.

"Shepard's approach to survival ultimately killed her. Being a slave did not keep her alive." Miranda sighed, gaze drifting to Minerva. The clone remained passive, lips parted and eyes moving gently under closed lids. She loved Minerva and Athena in different ways, but something about Athena's troubled nightmares triggered a powerful maternal instinct inside the Doctor. She could not bare to watch her suffer. "And Shepard… From all that I've read and all that I've studied… Shepard will not make that same mistake twice."

She watched Athena wistfully, regarding her smooth, pale features and heavy eyes. Miranda once convinced herself that Athena would always be Athena, Shepard merely an aspect of Athena's personality.

The Illusive Man smiled, combing a hand through warm brown hair that smelled faintly of jasmine. "I'm convinced," he admitted. He kissed her across the neck, whispering in her ear, "I admit you understand her best."

"You will need to stay close to her," Jack sighed. "Keep an eye on her. EDI will be a capable cage. Still, she will be unpredictable. We will have to be alert."

Miranda frowned, "If you tracked Shepard's chil-"

"Miranda. There are no traces of her child," The Illusive Man gravely spoke, his tone requesting unquestioned understanding. He had his secrets, he had his sources, he could not reveal his hand to the woman. However, their relationship remained strictly egalitarian, and Miranda matched Jack's lack of disclosure with her own. She knew Shepard did not abort the unborn child. It was alive and it was somewhere out there. To do so otherwise would be too contrary to Shepard's character as Miranda recently understood it.

Earlier, Miranda retrieved EDI's analyzations of Athena's intense reactions to the neural therapy. Miranda learned Athena was reciting a looped script in her sleep. Pieces and bits, words and stanzas provided enough information for EDI to discover the source. It was John Donne's 'A Valediction: forboding mourning'. For weeks, Athena mouthed parts and pieces of this poem, moving her lips and furrowing her brow as she silently muted out the nightmares that overwhelmed her.

Miranda once read the poem out loud as an experiment, retrieving brain data. Athena and Minerva responded exactly alike, beta waves dramatically reduced, conducive to a pacifying reaction. The poem was like a restart button for the brain.

Both Athena and Minerva housed the sparks of Shepard's soul, however Athena's spark was growing unpredictably and wildly. Her constant rejections to the pain medication, the cold sweats, the frequent nightmares, reciting that silent poem again and again and again as her brow knit in pain...

The poem must've been Shepard's final thoughts before she suffocated. Alone in space, drifting… the words beating into her. Staring into the end of it all… a professional survivor finally checkmated by the limitations of her tiny, pathetic body. That poem suggested Shepard, so certain she was eternally perished, would one day soon see her daughter in the afterlife for surely her child could not possibly survive the Reaper invasion now that she has died.

That poem was for her still living daughter - out there, somewhere in the galaxy.

"Her daughter's alive, Jack," Miranda maintained, watching Athena silently suffer Shepard's memories, soul blooming inside the shell. "She's alive."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:::<strong>

**The Illusive Man's story is a three parter. I will always post a chapter within 30 days, or make my greatest effort. Regardless...**

****I leave you with the poem.****

_As virtous men passe mildly'away,  
><em>_And whisper to their soules, to goe,  
><em>_Whilst some of their sad friends doe say,  
><em>_The breath goes now, and some say, no:_

_So let us melt, and make no noise,  
><em>_No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,  
><em>_'Twere prophanation of our joyes  
><em>_To tell the layetie our love._

_Moving of th'earth brings harmes and feares,  
><em>_Men reckon what it did and meant,  
><em>_But trepidation of the spheares,  
><em>_Though greater farre, is innocent._

_Dull sublunary lovers love  
><em>_(Whose soule is sense) cannot admit  
><em>_Absence, because it doth remove  
><em>_Those things which elemented it._

_But we by a'love, so much refin'd  
><em>_That we ourselves know not what it is,  
><em>_Inter-assured of the mind,  
><em>_Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse._

_Our two soules therefore, which are one,  
><em>_Though I must goe, endure not yet  
><em>_A breach, but an expansion,  
><em>_Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate.  
><em>

_If they be two, they are two so  
><em>_As stiffe twin compasses are two,  
><em>_Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show  
><em>_To move, but doth, if the'other doe._

_And though it in the center sit,  
><em>_Yet when the other far doth rome,  
><em>_It leanes, and hearkens after it,  
><em>_And growes erect, as it comes home._

_Such wilt thou be to mee, who must  
><em>_Like th'other foor, obliquely runne;  
><em>_Thy firmnes makes my circle just,  
><em>_And makes me end, where I begunne._

- John Donne; 'A Valediction: forboding mourning'


	18. Three Headed Dog : Lachesis

_What The Water Gave Me is the companion story to this chapter.  
>A story based on a drell's perspective, which can be a kaleidoscope of multiple memories and experiences<em>

**PATCHWORK GIRL**

**THREE HEADED DOG  
>[ PART TWO, LACHESIS ]<strong>  
><strong>The Illusive Man's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

Jack pivoted off rocks and broke through collector clusters. She knew this place. Or rather, she was familiar with it. The base was not unlike the collector ship they boarded before. She understood the consistency of the walls, how lightly she should plant her feet on the ground for a good runner's speed.

Only, the base was bigger. Much, much, _much _bigger.

_'Garrus, I need Jack to scout ahead.' _Shepard radioed._ 'I have visual on waypoint, no visual on Team Blue.' _

Vakarian's rasped sigh passed through the frequency. Jack stalled time by rolling spheres of dark energy towards stray enemy soldiers. _'EDI still hasn't hacked into the jammed signal, eh? Alright… Sending Jack to scout ahead with Grunt as cover. I'll keep my eye out from here… I'd like to see how deep this base goes… '_

_'Ditto,' _Shepard replied simply, acknowledging shared action with Blue Team's captain._ 'Jack, move out.'_

And so she did, spinning into a wide arc. The ground crumbled as Jack manipulated small sections of the ship's mass effect field, feet dancing as she played with the artificial gravity. It felt like a playground, boots crunching into the faces of strange, imaginary enemies that she and her small crew had invented for sport.

It was all just one final game to her. Just a fun game with two opposing sides. Team Shepard and Team Mother-fucking Reapers. It was last time she'd play this violent game of tag-_you're-dead!_ One last hurrah before shedding her skin; A farewell to killing and killing and killing and more killing.

Boots hit the ground in staccato, thick rubber soles crushing a blend of synthetic flesh and calloused pieces of collector rind against the metal floor.

Jack dodged smooth, synthetic claws. She stepped backwards and around the vacuous enemy. Her elbow connected with the husk. Its inky, plastic face burst upon impact. Marble optics popped out of its head, machine lubricant oozing from hollow sockets. It was like attacking a piñata, with tubes and lubricant spurting out of open tears instead of confetti and candy.

Another husk charged into her, nails scraping the crown of her head. Jack pushed her weight into an uppercut, tearing the creature from sternum to jaw - knocking the thing's head completely off. Machine oil poured over her, coppery black pooling at her feet. The firecracker swept a hand over her face, wiping off a layer of grease.

She launched into a sprint, weaving in and out of the tunnels. Jack scouted ahead, snapping from point A to point B. The air warbled as her body slammed directly into clusters of oncoming husks.

Jack's brown eyes searched the cradle of death, chewing on a lower lip nervously. Her reflexes twitched, ears hyper aware. She had to keep moving. She could not afford to make mistakes.

One slip, one fall, one misstep and Jack could jeopardize everything she ever loved.

_'Jack, run,'_ Shepard repeated.

And so she ran. She ran long and hard, refocused by Shepard's sharp voice. Terse, clipped and quick, it told her exactly what she needed to know.

_Peh-KOOOOW_

From afar, Jack could hear the crack of a rifle. At her ear, Jack could hear moaning.

_Husk._

Jack swung around fist first, thrusting her arm through the husk's head. Black, sticky lubricant splashed across her. There was a moment as she regarded the twisted mixture of metal and flesh circling her wrist, like some morbid bracelet completely detached from the rest of its body.

_'… Wow…' Vakarian drew. 'I gotta say, Shepard. Impressive neck shot… But Jack wins the cake for punching through the biter's head before it hit the ground.'_

Shepard said nothing.

Jack returned to racing, sprinting further and faster once she could see the checkpoint.

Jack grinned, red lipstick framing shark white teeth.

She made it.

She made it to the doors.

"I'm here, Madame Foucault. Just waiting for you and the BFG ('Big Friendly Geth') to open the gate."

_'I know. I can see you in my scope,' _Shepard's voice clipped back._ 'Keep that exit clear. Grunt, I don't have a visual on you yet-… shiiiit. Mother fucke-'_

Jack exaggerated the round of her shoulders as she shouted back into her commlink. "What, what's going on..?!"

'_Red Team, three tight formations NOW,' _The commander demanded. '_Jack, remain in position. Do not draw attention. Is that understood?'_

Jack blinked. The whisper of wings transformed into drums, streams of hard-shelled demons flying into view. She could faintly see the small outlines of her team mates staggered behind dark trenches and broad, daunting columns. Somewhere, Legion crawled deeper along the opaque tunnel above Red Team

The punk princess squinted her eyes and studied the sudden and violent attack against Shepard's overwhelmed team. Fire showered between the invisible line dividing where friend ended and foe began, grenade clusters arching across trenches. Miranda launched Zaeed's grenades further, flame engulfed bombs raining over the mindless termite army.

One of the uglier mother fuckers suddenly erupted in Jack's sight. Its shell hissed and cracked, hard body twisting. A voice pierced her skull, the deeper octaves scrambling Jack's insides.

**_'You cannot deny the inevitable.'_**

The thing tore apart her brain thoughts with overwhelming input. An eerie sense of apathy overcame Jack as a series of potential futures flashed behind her eyes. In one outcome, she fell to bended knee and accepted her place in the great collective. In another, everything she ever loved broke apart into nothing.

**_'We are the harbinger of your becoming.'_**

The words split her brain. The nightmarish creature's broken, twisted fingers curled. Collectors swarmed Red Team, assaulting the specialists as the Uglier-Mother-Fucker's slow gait granted ample time to hurtle a gravity bomb into the group's heart.

Thane and Tali were there, as was Kasumi, Miranda and Gramps…

Jack cursed between white teeth, "Oh fucking jesu- I'm coming, I'm coming now!"

_'Jack, stay and do nothing,' _Shepard's voice snapped between breaks of static. _'Vakarian, I have visual on Jack. Where is Blue Team?'_

_'Blue Team making way. Jack covered a lot of ground and enemy forces are closing in from behind. If we don't hold 'em back then-'_

_'We are fucke- FUCK, THANE. SHOOT IT IN THE HEA-'_

**_! ZSHHHHHHHHHHHH'_**

**_'You cannot resist this.'_**

The cracked creature continued its pinpointed gait, further endangering Red Team. The shield stripped crew cowered behind rock barricades. Jack furled and unfurled her fingers, heart beating harder inside her head.

Jack trembled as the horror haunted her friends. Miranda and Zaeed could do little to curb the creature's gait, focusing their combined firepower on surrounding collectors, weeding them out. She could make out Tali's pet drone Chiktikka pathetically zapping the big bad boss-bug's ankles to no effect.

_'Shepard Commander. Ventilation shaft is blocked and will overheat. We are unable to override security lockdown systems. We-'_

_'…I swear, if you repeat that one more fucking time, I'll turn you into a bed pan with matching lamp,' _Shepard barked angrily.

_PA-KOOOW_

The telltale sound of an anti-material sniper rifle brokered the air. A solid metal slug ricocheted off the Uglier-Mother-Fucker's shields, shattering the mass effect currents. 'Harbinger' stumbled backwards, kinetic barrier cells fizzling pathetically.

_'Ventilation shaft is blocked.' _Legion reminded. '_Overheating in 200 seconds.'_

A large wall barricaded the tunnel between both teams, leaving Jack's position as the only way point between both groups. Jack hesitated, gesticulating wildly at Blue Team to hurry up, cuz as far as Jack could see, Red-Team was straight up fucked without reinforcements.

**_'We know you, Subject Zero... We shall end your suffering.'_**

_'I see you, Vakarian,' _Shepard _finally_ declared. _'Jack. Samara. I need a Sanctuary Tent at waypoint. Red Team, continue suppressing fire.'_

These prickling thoughts receded as quickly as they surfaced, erased by Shepard's simple order: Sanctuary Tent at waypoint.

Vakarian's Blue Team carefully marched closer to meet Jack. Samara had formed a protective bubble around her team mates, hence the slow march. Dark energy flickered and kissed Samara's not-so-distant form, effectively shelling Jack and the remaining members of Blue Team. Jack firmly planted her feet into the ground and followed Samara's lead. She pulled on the invisible strings connecting her nerve endings to massive base's gravity field. She could feel a powerful canopy of energy bursting between her fingertips, expanding into a massive, rippling blanket. Jack pushed the web out, expanding the biotic tent around waypoint and her friends.

Samara and Jack combined their powers, establishing Sanctuary Tent.

_'Waypoint secured,' _Vakarian relayed immediately.

_'Kasumi?'_

"Already on it, Shep."

Kasumi's form flickered between Jack and Samara. The 'Sanctuary Tent' was held by the pillars and vaults of Jack and Samara's straight arms. The other biotic, Jacob, was buried under their superior skill, but remained practical by spot checking and repairing tears across the shear canvas. Kasumi breathed evenly, using a cable that connected her omni-tool to a system port near the barred door. The friends acknowledged each other with concerned smiles.

There was an understanding between both friends: Shepard's orders were holy. You may acknowledge them and but you do not question nor supplement the task at hand with talk. Shepard hated chit-chat. Especially what she deemed to be 'boring' chit-chat. Which was anything uninformative.

Unfortunately, some of the team members were not terribly keen to that unspoken understanding.

Namely, the less organic team members.

_'Overheating in 30…29…'_

"Legion," Kasumi patiently replied into her commlink, still working away, "I know you are-"

'_…28…'_

"-trying to be help-"

_…27…'_

"-ful, but you can stop counting-"

_'…26…'_

"-right aboooout…."

'…25…'

"Now."

Jack watched the transculscent shaft above the overwhelmed Red Team violently exhale plumes of steam, vapor bursting through the shaft. The tunnel, once opaque with condensation, cleared - revealing the geth's close proximity. _'Proceeding to checkpoint,'_ Legion stated, sprinting above and behind the locked gates. _'Beginning external override. ET 120 seconds.'_

Samara and Jack stood back to back, shoulders touching with hands braced in opposing directions. Grunt was the first to step inside, followed by the rest of Blue Team. Vakarian was the last to join, - a trail of enemy fire following his footsteps.

It was then that Jack realized a small aspect of Shepard's unspoken strategy: Vakarian remained untouched and unharmed, further protected by the biotically conjured fortress. If it were chess, Shepard had successfully castled the king.

Garrus spun around to meet Jack, the sound of Blue Team's fire exploding within the biotic bubble. He barked at her so his voice would carry despite the deafening noise. "SHEPARD?"

She could only point with her chin, jutting her jaw towards the bleeding nightmare surrounded by collectors. 'Harbinger' paced towards Shepard's Red Team, slowed only by Blue Team's fire. They were all distressed, none more so than Garrus. She could feel the turian's concern in her chest, some inaudible turian-produced sound waves buzzing her bones.

"Red Team Status!"Vakarian shouted across the frequency. "Shepard, I need a status report now!"

_'Goddamit…' Shepard relayed, 'Garrus, we are a few clicks away, I need continued suppressing fire-..'_

**_'You will succumb.'_**

_'Thane, what the HELL?' _Shepard shouted. '_Hit the damn thing in the head NOW.'_

Another rifle sounded off once more, tearing across Harbinger's reinforced helmet, ripping off plates and pieces of flesh.

The inside of Uglier-Mother-Fucker's head was hollow. There were no brains.

What need would Reapers have for slaves that possess brains?

This revelation enraged her.

"Jack," Samara called, sensing the young woman's distraction. "Bhavana."

_Control yourself or face the consequences._ Jack did not want blind anger to endanger her family. She ignored the hellish corridors and canals festering with collectors. She concentrated on her breathing, listening to it rasp back and forth, feeling the warm air branch across her lungs. Her fingertips pushed into Sanctuary Tent's translucent interior, meditating on the wall of energy held up by the combined strengths of a fucked up human and an asari warrior monk. By utilizing the right energies, they were able to create a powerful field whose exterior deflected attacks while allowing interior specialists to maintain suppressing fire. It was the perfect wall. Combined, Jack and Samara were impenetrable. They were rooks, fixed to their points and deadly in pairs. Jack leaned into the warrior's shoulder, a gentle thank you. _Thank you for saving me before hatred drowned me. _Jack thought._ Thank you for being there before I destroyed myself._

_'Shit… Thane's been hit!'_

Jack turned her head. Another cache of collectors rushed from behind Red Team.

"Spirits christ…" Vakarian rasped, "Shepard, I'm sending reinforce-"

_'Vakarian, stand down!'_

Garrus bristled.

_'No one runs backwards. Stay. Put.' _Shepard snapped. Jack could faintly see her bobbing into view. The Bloody Shepherdess had hoisted Thane across her shoulders, sprinting adjacent and avoiding the assault drawing closer. _'Legion! Are we there?'_

_'Affirmative.' _the geth replied evenly. '_Overriding security lockdown in 3… 2… 1…'_

The doors slid open. They marched backwards, bullets spraying the biotic halo. Tali and Kasumi both rushed into checkpoint, adding their technical strength to Legion's station. Shepard burst into the room with Thane slung over her shoulder. The drell blindly fired a pistol into the oncoming wave of hellbent Reaper slaves, his body slack across the commander's frame.

"Knock them out and close those damn doors!" Foucault shouted. "NOW!"

Both women whirled their arms, tugging at the dark energy from wrist to shoulder. Jack mirrored the asari's movements, gently pushing against the force's inertia before latching onto the effective field and condensing the energy into dark matter. They slammed their palms against the block, breaking the dam with one thrust of repelling energy. The powerful wave knocked back surrounding enemies moments before the security doors smashed together. Tali'Zorah rushed to reinforce the door seal, applying a temporary cement bond across the seam. The door's block would not hold long, but at least it would hold for the time being.

"Shit…" Jack gasped, bracing her arm against the door. The super weapon gathered her wits, twisting around to heed her teammates. They each formed their loose bands; Kasumi chose to gravitate towards Samara and Jack, a worried whisper amplifying concern.

"Thane looks bad."

Jack narrowed her eyes, bracing one arm around Kasumi's shoulders. Her gaze caught the gathering's centerpiece. Thane draped across the Bloody Shepherdess's arms, some divine sacrifice to the flock. Mordin hurried to the wounded's side, barely babbling above a breath as he carefully applied medi-gel to the bruised and beaten tissue.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Kasumi shuddered.

Jack and Thane had never been formerly introduced, though Kasumi's gossip allowed the delinquent a glimpse into a stranger's life. Thane had become a friend to her through the art thief's famous story telling. Thane who was born into a culture of indentured servitude, Thane who paid off his family's debt by killing people for hanar. Then there was Irikah who taught him how to read. Thane who blindly loved his wife and child. Thane whose blood thirsty past returned to murder Irikah. Thane who everyone knew but never spoke to. No one except Kasumi Goto, the biggest gossip in the galaxy and the most well-known and loved girl on the Normandy. She had befriended even Thane who befriended no one.

Jack only hoped Thane's story did not end in this hard hell.

"Dammit Thane, we are not going to lose you now," Shepard snapped, pressing her right hand against the open patch of the drell's body. The smell of cooked flesh seeped from a gash across Thane's body. Mordin discharged Shepard's grip, applying layers of disinfectant and medigel soaked synthetic gauze. The wrap stopped the bleeding, removing an emotional layer to the reticent turmoil.

Thane gulped at the air in soft rasps. He slid his hand around Shepard's. He was pale and on the cusp of losing consciousness. "Siha," Thane whispered. "I was already dying."

"Bullshit," Foucault interrupted, "No one dies unless I let them die."

Jack watched in disbelief as Shepard simply lifted him again, draping the drell across one shoulder. Then Jack remembered that Foucault was a full 400 lbs of modified body mass, the kind of raw weight that required its own freaking mass effect generator. Thane was no burden to a machine like that. "EDI, how's the decryption going?"

_'Collector intelligence is attempting a full shut down to restore control over the base's core server. However, you were correct. There was a glitch in the ship's security programming. Fully locking down collector base's control systems.'_

"..I bet the Reapers truly doubted I'd be able to penetrate a fortress secured by a wall of black holes… Ineffability is non-existent, even to the gods," Shepard thought out loud. "Where's the crew located, EDI?"

_'They are pinged at approximately 400 meters ahead.'_

Shepard hoisted Thane and ran. Jack briefly embraced Kasumi's fingers before following. They all followed, they of mixed breeding and different families, they of unique beliefs and strange worlds.

They all followed her in silence.

_'Time grows quicker…'_ Thane whispered across the radio.

_'The water gave me life,  
><em>_'Now it grants me death.  
><em>_'Lay me down to awake an infant,  
><em>_'Lay me down to sleep in serenity.  
><em>_'Let the only sound I hear be the overflow.'_

Jack ran, feet pounding, heart bouncing, ears lulled by the gentle words.

_'My soul and body separate over time,  
><em>_'In youth they manifest.  
><em>_'In age they severe.'_

_'My spirit shall drown  
><em>_'The water will renew..'_

Shepard's run remained fluid. _'So you know about the tattoo,'_ the Commander growled from afar. _'Well, whatever keeps you from fucking DYING.'_

_'It is a poem for those… ready to die…' _Thane gasped. _'An ancient poem of a life cycle ending.'_

"I'm not letting go," Shepard shouted at Thane.

"Don't expect a confession or some deep profound connection here, Thane. Not in the middle of a fucking SUICIDE MISSION," Shepard shouted before abruptly punching her hand through a husk's head. Jack nearly tripped on the falling decapitated body. From that point, she wisely chose to keep a safe distance from the babbling Savior of Mankind.

Jack frowned, rubber soles pounding across the hard floors. No matter how hard she ran, Jack could not break Shepard's lead. Stuck staring at the shield generator between Shepard's shoulders, her thoughts drifted back to the tattoo hiding under Shepard's armor. Jack remembered concentrating on the long looped drell script across the commander's back. She remembered how she focused all her suffering and loathing on those silver and black inks between Shepard's shoulder blades, repeating that singular curse in her head.

Siha. Siha. Siha. Die. Die. Die.

_'Shepard, I see Chakwas, the crew can't be far. 100 meters, straight shot.'_

"Good. Perfect. Excellent. Wonderful. Jesus fucking Athame, thank you universe." Shepard hushed.

Thane could no longer lift his arm. His fingers relaxed, dropping his hand gun. The pistol tumbled twice before Jack swept it away, adding the light weapon to her arsenal. _I will return it to him later,_ Jack assured herself. His scales turned a drab olive green bordering on grey. He had lost a lot of blood.

Siha Siha Die Die Die, Jack once cursed.

Siha Siha Live Live Live, Jack now prayed.

_'Siha,' _Thane whispered, his voice barely carrying over the radio. '_… … I… … failed… as a father. … … he … was and shall forever … a perfect son.'_

People screamed. Shepard. Kasumi. Maybe others. It was a jumble of yells, demanding Thane not give up, demanding he stay awake. Jack couldn't tell whose voice was whose. She wasn't sure. Jack could only do one thing - follow Shepard.

_'I am able to identify Chief Medical Officer Chakwas,' _Legion radioed. _'… Yeoman Chambers, Mess Sergeant Rupert Gardner, Crewman Zach Matthe-'_

"Hey, Tin Man. Just cuz we're made of soft squishy stuff doesn't mean we can't see." Jack rolled, adjusting her stride and pushing her non-modified legs to sprint that much faster. Jack wasn't a runner. She was a light weight boxer, so the added upper muscle bulk dragged her back slightly. To compensate, Jack used her biotics. The hairs along her arms pricked and shivered as dark energy rippled from her center. Jack cut back her weight to an ideal runner's baggage, allowing her to finally pass Shepard deeper into the hive.

Pods multiplied in view. What looked like a wall painted some iridescent orange turned out to be a cavern blanketed by human-sized cages. Long, black tubes were attached to each port, converging to create a web of massive, drooping pipes that lead to god knows what.

The pipes were leaking a dark-grey fluid, eerie stalagmites forming grey, blackened castles under the thick liquid. The stench was sweet, putrid and powerfully familiar. But she couldn't quite identify the aroma...

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Jack stopped, feet sliding briefly across the floor. She rushed towards the sound and could make out someone panicking inside one of the capsules. So many cages, yet so little cargo. Jack was told entire colonies vanished, whisked away by collectors. Where the hell did the hostages go?

_And why does it smell like shit and bloo- Oh fuck-_

"SHEPARD," Jack screamed, amplifying the weight of her elbow as she came down hard on the occupied cage.

It was all so clear.

The collectors were processing humans.

Jack punched the center of the crack, cushioning her fist with a zero-gravity bubble. Orange glass shattered upon impact, shards racing different directions. A woman's scream shrilled the air, no longer muffled by the engulfing shell. Jack grabbed her, planting a foot against the capsule and physically dragging the lady out. Yeoman Chambers collapsed in the ex-convict's arms, sobbing.

"S-S-Save- Save them!" Kelly cried, gesticulating wildly around her. The yeoman launched herself away, pounding and prying at a neighboring capsule. Shepard was upon them, fist flying through the lid with Thane still hoisted across her shoulder. She clawed into the reinforced steel with a crunch then _ripped_ the door off. Chakwas tumbled out, coughing.

The specialists swarmed the pods, ripping off doors and breaking off shell pieces. One by one, they liberated the minor crew from their confined crates. Tali held onto Gabby and Kenneth, shaking, crying, relieved… Zaeed fussed over Chakwas and Miranda eased Kelly's anxiety attack. Mordin carefully studied Thane after Shepard placed the unconscious drell on the ground. Kasumi appeared by Thane's side, asking Mordin a string of queries that were all degrees of the same question - Will my friend live?

Few words were exchanged before Shepard rapidly spat out orders. "Alright," The commander started. "Mordin, you're leading the minor crew back to the Normandy. I will need you to carry Thane so that he can seek immediate medical attention."

The salarian frowned, attentive fingers touching and coaxing Thane's flesh. He slathered another layer of medigel across wounded scales. "Lung may collapse. Wound to second diaphragm-"

"He's not dead," Shepard stated with conviction. "Grunt and Kasumi will cover you back to base-"

"I do not run from legendary battles, Shepard," The juvenile rebutted, cerulean eyes concentrating on Foucault's livid silver stare.

THONK.

The voices of liberated friends and scrupulous specialists dimmed, all eyes on the human who just whipped her skull across Grunt's chest. The krogan teetered. Shepard's heel struck junior's calves, forcing him to bend at the knee. "Who ripped out the thresher maw's tongue?"

Grunt paused.

The whole fucking room paused.

"You did," he answered gravely.

The commander stood over him, pinpoint pupils biting into thin reptilian slits. "Who are you?"

"… I am Urdnot Grunt Normandy, born from the belly of the stars and mothered by she who ripped out a thresher maw's tongue."

Shepard nodded slowly.

Grunt snorted, brows contorting as he drew back to his feet. It was strange watching him stalk off, a myriad of expressions painting his face. Grunt's body language was less krogan and more… more human. The way his shoulders rounded and he avoided eye contact, white molars grinding behind a tense jaw. The kid was more human than krogan, really - a child of mixed identity, and at the moment he seemed positively wounded.

Shepard, on the other hand, looked pissed. "Alright. Are there ANY OTHER OBJECTIONS to your _superior's_ orders or can I get back to wo-"

"I gotta fuckin' objection," Zaeed snarled.

"Oh Jesus spirits christ, of course you'd objec-.." The commander snapped her heel into the ground with a snarl.

Massani's upper lip trembled. Chakwas, on the other hand, appeared to be less alarmed and more frustrated. Regardless, the doctor's protests fell on mute ears- "Mr. Massani, while I appreciate the sentiment, I-"

"I ain't leaving Karin's side," the old dog interrupted, shielding Dr. Chakwas from Shepard with one beefy arm. "Not after what you did."

Shepard frowned. Fingers pinched the nerve between her eyes. Very slowly, very carefully she spoke, each word some precious gem that required careful inspection. "Wouldn't it be nice to tell a story where no one has to die?"

The audience held its breath. The old dog glared, though his snarl dissolved once Foucault's words sliced his heart. "Your record ain't exactly spotless, _Bloody Shepherdess_."

"Yeah, well, my record is flawless compared to yours, champ." It was true. Everyone on the ship knew it was true. The man was a notorious bragger, a living legend who retold endless serials of how he always lived, how others always died… "Chakwas has a better chance of surviving under _my _command_._"

"I will hunt down and kill anyone who hurts her," Zaeed threatened. Doc, however, shook her head and went right back to doing procedural health checks unperturbed (Jack could faintly hear the doc groan 'finally' when Massani walked away). Shepard rolled her eyes and turned, signaling teams to move out with a dramatic flick of the wrist. They smiled and waved at one another in parting - it was true, this could be their last goodbye. But the chance of survival drained with every minute spent inside this hell.

They marched away in silence. In time, the minor crew disappeared, leaving the others to drill deeper into the multi-layered hell.

_'Shepard. Room sensors detect a sudden increase in PSI. Multiple heat signatures are heading in your direction suggesting th-'_

"Seeker swarms…" Shepard rolled her shoulders.

_'Mordin's shell will not withstand the oncoming pressure.'_

"… and we don't have fucking time to run," Shepard noted duly. The gentle hum of a million beating wings accentuated the irony. Neither biotic waited for Shepard's orders. Samara and Jack both raised their arms, synchronized dance giving rise an impressive biotic bubble surrounding the team.

"Zaeed, flame thrower. Mordin?"

_'Reaching exit route B. EDI will seal route doors after approach. Total survival rate of crew, 45.3 percent.'_

"Not too shabby," Shepard perked. The Omni-tool fashioned to the commander's wrist generated a small ball of flame with a quick flick. She promptly hurtled the fire ball into the storm of insects rushing towards them.

"Brace yourself," Samara breathed. Jack peeled her eyes off the commander and focused on her stance. The swarm was about to hit them with all the force of a small moving ship. Well, sort of. It was more like a slow application of pressure. One by one, the flies fluttered against the barrier. They smacked against the invisible canopy. It sounded a bit like rain. Little by little, Jack could feel the weight of them, shoulders and arms adjusting to the increased pressure.

"… This is gonna suck…" Jack muttered. Sure, it ain't so bad now. Given more time, however, Jack will suddenly find herself sweating and cursing while holding back six hundred pounds of pressure.

'_Collectors are moving to surround you Shepard. They will reach flanking position.'_

"Garrus?"

"Easy. We split back into two teams," Vakarian tapped his visor, synchronizing the tool's data with the crew's mobiles. Kasumi shared her screen with Jack and Samara, revealing a large map of the surrounding space. It was beginning to spit static, likely because of the seeker swarm's interference. "Team Blue will act as a diversion. We'll bite our way through the main hall, give 'em one hell of a fight."

"And we'll take the back entrance, plant the bomb, regroup and move the fuck out," Shepard agreed. "Red Team's smaller, we'll take Jack. Samara's better suited to cover your asses."

Jack tensed. They were going to separate? It would be tough to sustain the sanctuary tent for prolonged periods without Samara's support. She could do it but… "We gotta move fast then, Commander Ma'am," Jack pointed out. "These bugs are just piling on top of us."

"The barriers will collapse if we do not move quickly," Samara rephrased.

"Point," the Commander acknowledged. She turned to face the full attention of her company. "Jack, Miranda, and Zaeed follow me. The rest of you belong to Vakarian."

Garrus and Shepard pivoted away from one another. Jack could feel the increased weight as Samara followed Vakarian, the second support moving away from the field. Kasumi trailed behind her team members, long enough to talk within earshot. "Shep, this is it. Speech?"

The commander acknowledged the implore with a curt frown. Kasumi's request was met with all the chill and nothingness of wind. The art thief smiled sadly and disappeared as Blue Team rounded a corner under Samara's careful protection.

"What did the galaxy do to you that made you so fucking mean?" Jack hissed.

"Ask Miranda," Shepard replied simply, retrieving a semi-automatic from her gravity band. The commander popped in a handful of thermal clips before taking one good long gander at the room. "A cluster of these ceiling pipes worm through the walls… That's our way in. Alright… Zaeed, use your flamethrower to burn off excess baggage."

Massani nodded, lifting the heavy weapon off his back with a solid tug. It broke apart, expanding in Zaeed's capable hands. He pointed the nozzle up. Fire spat above them and the bugs burst into black ash. Less weight on Jack's back was a good thing. Breaks were nice, no matter how brief. Jack was more of a long endurance kinda gal anyways.

"Don't let me down, old man," Jack nudged kindly. "You're my lifeline."

"Jax, trust me. I ain't gonna let anything happen to you. I die before you."

And Jack really believed he meant what he said.

They were running in line with Shepard leading the band. First the husks came. A few here and there that were easily removed by a combination of gunplay and Miranda's warp fields. Jack concentrated on holding the bubble, grunting when the weight became too difficult to bare. She found cover and held position as Zaeed cleared some weight off the barrier with good old fashioned pyromancy. Meanwhile, Miranda and Shepard worked together to bring down entire feasts of husks and abominations running alongside collector troops. Sometimes Shepard request a spare fire grenade from Zaeed, but they were in excellent condition despite the overwhelming odds baring down on them.

Four against the core of a massive, asteroid sized _base_. And Jack still believed that they were going to make it. This was just a fucking baptism by fire. Part of the religious initiation aspect of things. Jack wanted to keep her life? Then she had better fucking earn that right.

What was it Thane had said?

_'My spirit shall drown_

_'The water will renew.'_

Well, she wasn't ready to drown, nor was she about to let the water renew anyone involved in this fucking mission.

I will not let them die. I will not let her die. I will not die.

Jack meditated on that, even as chaos surrounded her. They all yelled around her. Maintaining clear communication was a priority as they shot, blew up and/or blasted shit apart at varying distances from cover. But it wasn't Jack's fight. She wasn't there to fight. Jack was a mobile oxygen tank that kept human-paralyzing fist sized mosquitos at bay. They needed her to stay alive. Jack needed them to stay alive herself. And so she meditated.

No one will die.

"Jack, move out." Shepard panted. They moved once the way was clear, climbing across the heavy tubes and slipping between the walls of the collector structure. Jack could feel the pressure around her slowly recede. Just in time too.. despite the focused clarity, the ex-convict could definitely feel her body shaking.

"It looks like EDI's virus is still infecting the collector's surveillance capabilities," Miranda murmured out-loud. "We've lost the swarms but we've also lost our signals."

"Evens the playing field. Also makes it harder for the enemy to back-hack using Normandy's signal," Shepard drawled. She peeked back to regard Jack with a single raised brow. "Jack, you can relax now."

And Jack did, buckling onto her knees with an heavy intake of air. Zaeed offered a hard hand for the exhausted woman to collect. And fuck yes, did she ever accept the help of getting up. Jack maybe a super woman but she wasn't fucking Atlas. She still had her limits. A fact that sucked, but a fact Jack had learned to deal with.

Shepard looked at her up and down. That powerful look, the indiscriminate sort. Informed and anesthetic all at once.

Jack looked back in gratitude.

Red Team jogged when they could get away with it but mostly kept to walking, treading carefully not to slip across the weird, twining surface of their black bridge. The wires and pipes carrying human… stuff… converged more and more as they dived deeper into the egg, repurposed as a grey glassed road leading them to base's power source.

_'…Red… copy? Red Te-… copy? Red Team, do you copy? Red Team, do you-'_

"We are approximate," Shepard replied, "Blue Team status?"

_'What, you didn't hear me?'_

Shepard smirked, "Nope."

Blue Team's channel gave out a collective groan.

_'Vakarian hit two scions in the head. With one shot,' _Jacob joined.

"It doesn't count if one of them still has its shields up."

_'That's what I said.'_

_'It counts,' _Vakarian snorted. The conversation was shortened by the sound of shouting and static. _'Whatever you do, better do it quick. We'll hold the rendezvous point but time is never on our side here.'_

Shepard sniffed. "We're getting close to the heart of this thing if the map's any indicator. EDI, can you re-establish visor stream between Vakarian and I?"

_'Reconnecting link.'_

_'The lilacs remain unbloomed, Shepard.'_

The fu-? Jack knew better than to clarify, but the fuck? Lilacs remain unbloomed? What was with the code?

"Thane?" Shepard asked, pushing aside draping clusters of black tubes.

_'Thane is on life support. Physical damage is extensive, chances of surviva-'_

Shepard clipped Mordin off with a single, sharp word, "Good."

They continued to tread carefully, tailing closely to Shepard. Jack allowed her eyes to wonder, gaze briefly regarding Massani who had a bit more of a perk to his step (_Note to self: if we both survive, I'm giving the old dog some lessons on how to respect Doc's space_).

They were ghosts navigating in dark territory thanks to EDI's advanced cyber warfare capabilities. Shepard's team had slipped away from the collectors in their own fucking base. It was a marvelous feat. Cold, fluorescent light began to radiated from the cracks and crannies inside the tunnels. The commander leaned towards a peek spot, peering through her visor.

_'Can't see anything,' _Vakarian muttered.

"Yeah," Shepard agreed. She moved up further, peeking through different cracks. Curious, Jack leaned against one of the walls and attempted to get a good look at the outside room. From what she could tell, they were suspended somewhere. Dim Light poured from the center of.. something.

_'I am analyzing your visor's feed, Shepard,' _EDI stated. _'Present visual data is sufficient.'_

"And?" Shepard inquired simply.

EDI did not immediately answer the question. Instead, she paused.

EDI doesn't pause.

It was very, very weird.

_'EDI?' _Joker coaxed, concerned.

_'Shepard. The collectors are harvesting human DNA to create a Reaper.'_

The epiphany collectively disturbed anyone who was listening to Red Team's channel. Miranda gawked, jolted by the alarming revelation. Jack probably looked just as fucking disconcerted, it was a natural human response to finding out that people were being slaughtered for some proto-reaper. Zaeed and Shepard, however, proved their utter lack of humanity by remaining eerily composed and unbothered by the truth.

"Miranda, call Mr. Illusive. I want to deliver a message to him before I blow this thing sky high," Shepard whistled, studying the walls that enclosed the space around them. She ran one nail across the hard surface, inspecting the collected dirt. "Zaeed, I need a controlled explosion…" Shepard paused, reading the data that flashed across her visor. She pointed at the ground with her toe. "Here. Enough to blast a hole. The proto-reaper should be right in front of us."

Zaeed immediately went to work. Jack offered to help but the stubborn old mule refused it. "You'd only bungle up the process," he complained.

Zaeed joined once the explosives were placed, detonator attached to a long wire the old man stretched.

_'Shepard.'_

A stranger's voice graced the air. Jack blinked, staring at the image of a small, elegant man projecting from Miranda's omni-tool. He wore a smart outfit with a cigarette braced between his fingers. His youthful features were enhanced by the neatly styled thick silver-grey hair. The eyes are what weirded Jack out. His eyes were so unique, strange and synthetic, yet they caste a familiar apprehension. It was the same uneasy sensation Jack felt when Shepard looked at her.

Maybe creepy stares were just an unfortunate side effect related to synthetic vision.

Or maybe Shepard and the Illusive Man really were just psychopaths with penetrating eyes. It was hard to say.

The commander sniffed, regarding the hologram apathetically. "I'm about to destroy the base."

_'No you aren't,' _The Illusive Man corrected.

"Yes she is," Miranda interrupted, turning the hologram to face her. "It's over, Jack. The lies, the deception… It's over."

_'Oh Miranda…' _The image sighed, shaking his head, _'I really believed you'd be able to remain detached, especially from a malignant narcissist…'_

"That was your mistake, among others," Lawson shot back. "No one will be collecting this technology for you. This base will be destroyed as well as the proto-reaper."

A good strong hand slapped across Jack's shoulder, making her flinch. The old mercenary gave her a good long look before regarding the sharp looking gentleman streaming from Miranda's omni-tool. "Oi," Massani snapped, "I'm still getting paid for this shit, right?"

"Double, Zaeed," Shepard replied, "I know the Shadow Broker."

_'So you keep reminding me of Liara's position as your personal Nike,' _The Illusive Man shook his tiny immaculate head. _'It doesn't matter. You won't destroy the base.'_

_'Shepard, I would really like to go back home now. If you'd please,' _Vakarian interrupted, the background of gun shots emphasizing the turian's point.

The woman clipped her heels together, participating in some stupid staring contest with a miniature hologram. "Zaeed, detonate."

_Blam. Blamblamblamblam. Blam. Blamblam._

The explosives went off with a _bang_ one by one. The sounds bounced off each other, carving neat holes into the wall. Shepard ran her fist through the crack, tearing through rubbery black tubes and knocking off chunks of amber plate. They were suspended in the air, standing inside what looked like a giant upside-down root. "EDI, I'll need you to send a platform to my locati-"

Shepard stopped talking.

She just… in mid-sentence was interrupted entirely. Shepard froze. She just completely froze. Jack exchanged a look with Zaeed who reflected her puzzlement with a shrug. Miranda was the first to reach Shepard's side, ignoring the hologram still floating above her wrist. Jack peered over the women's shoulders into the window of outside. The hole itself was sizable, large enough for Zaeed to slip through though too small for someone like Grunt.

Shepard turned off her visor.

_'Shepard… I lost visual feed of your room. Do you copy?' Garrus asked_

Jack's stomach twisted once she recognized the shape constructed entirely by human material. The massive proto-reaper curled into itself, six small arms folded lightly around its legs. The lips moved and eyes fluttered, suckling the air and kicking empty space. Quaking gently. It looked like a tree, large tunnels branching out from a moving, developing trunk that centered the room. The light source pulsed from the proto-reaper's chest and head, translucent flesh revealing a partially built skull. They stood there, in the 'tree's' branches, peering down at the still developing being below them.

_'It looks like a human fetus, doesn't it?' _The Illusive Man gently suggested. '_They are trying to understand us, from the very beginning of our collective memory…'_

"I hate you…" Miranda hissed between her teeth, cutting the hologram off.

"He's right," Shepard whispered. "He's right, Miranda." She nodded, as if reassuring a shaky principle. "He's right."

"Shepard…"

"We don't have time to discuss this, Miranda," Shepard snapped.

And she was right. They had no time. Time was precious. Every minute spent in this hell was one more minute closer to death. So Jack spent little time pondering the Illusive Man's cruel manipulations. Instead, Jack chose to live and did what she was told.

Obeying orders was all she could do.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:::<strong>

**This story is based on Matt Rhodes's original design of the proto-reaper for Bioware's Mass Effect 2 as opposed to the latter skeleton-human designs.**

**To me the reaper-fetus concept is far more hair raising than a three-eyed evil half skeleton could ever hope to be. But Bioware wanted a final boss fight and I imagine fighting a fetus would weird some people out.**

**Some music.**

**The National - Don't Swallow the Cap**  
><strong>The Glitch Mob - Between Two Points ft. Swan<strong>  
><strong>The National - Fireproof<strong>


	19. Three Headed Dog : Atropos

**PATCHWORK GIRL**

**THREE HEADED DOG  
>[ PART THREE, ATROPOS ]<strong>  
><strong>The Illusive Man's Story<strong>

_When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history._

The pieces were placed in perfect harmony, salt and pepper pawns checkering the board. Jack liked chess, in much the same way he enjoyed aged whiskey and natural tobacco. When he was a young man, chess dominated his free time at the refugee camp. At first, he muled drugs - molding or shaping large rocks of 'produce' into simple pieces, easily smuggling narcotics across North America. He owed a great deal to chess, and suspected no one appreciated that game half as much as he. No one except for Foucault.

The Shepard-doll sat across from him, uncanny eyes fixed on the subject in front of her space. Upon inspecting the robot's optics closely, Jack could faintly see the iridescent reflection of his hologram as it appeared in the Normandy's meeting room (a testament to the gynoid's precise design). He liked to play slowly, fishing for emotional responses from the mysterious soldier. Shepard spoke sparingly, a 'yes' here, a 'no' there, a 'go fuck yourself in the eye' peppered in-between the yes's and the no's.

"Are you going to move?" Foucault inquired dully. She jut her jaw, licked a tooth and flashed a giant pearly grin.

_That's... different. _Jack sniffed. He lit a cigarette and sipped the smoke between his knuckles. "Should I?"

Foucault frowned and slumped in her seat. "If you ain't playing, then why _are_ we playing?"

"I'll play," Harper hummed, warm smoke embracing his throat and chest. "In my own time."

Shepard frowned and then she pouted. It was childish, really, the way she crossed her arms and jut her lip out. _She's actually throwing a tantrum…_ Foucault's forged behavior urged him to frown, "You are trying to manipulate me."

The gynoid's posture stiffened following Jack's accusation. Her optics narrowed suspiciously then relaxed. The remarkably life-like synthetic skin appeared less organic when paired with Foucault's impassive silence. She ground her jaw and puffed her cheeks, the blue ink expanding and deflating across the proxy's face. "No. You are trying to manipulate me. You've had 48 hours to figure out your move. _48 hours_."

"Forgive me if the Normandy's immediate secession from Cerberus kept me occupied," the Illusive Man replied gently.

Foucault shrugged, "You say secede, I say broke out of its fucking cage. Don't tell me you actually believed you'd be able to keep her under lock and key…" The gynoid's optics drifted from the checkered table, stare locked upon him. She stifled a laugh and snorted. It was a genuinely candid moment quickly gorged by Shepard's arrogance. "You did, you really did… you actually thought you could keep my wings clipped. Oh, uberdick - you really miscalculated this time, huh?"

She crossed her arms under her breasts and slacked backwards, rocking back and forth steadily on her chair, chilly grey eyes searing holes through the Illusive Man's costume and Jack Harper's confidence. Shepard was a dangerous creature. He was a human male, once her predominate prey. Hesitation, frustration, even the dilation of his mechanical pupils would be noted by her. She couldn't help it. History coupled with neurogenetic mutations designed Foucault as the perfect hunter of all thinking creatures - including reapers and especially adult men.

Some say the sociopath was the product of rape between a slave and a trafficker. The proof of the rumored origin story was shaky at best and overshadowed by a well documented case where, at some point in the late stages of puberty, Foucault killed men far larger than her and did so with alarming frequency. The Japanese called her Nohime (Lady Noh) - a serial killer who slaughtered influential gentlemen. The nickname spawned after security footage revealed the woman wearing a traditional Noh mask as she killed and carved ravens in flight across the first victim's flesh using a pin knife.

The yakuza, however, knew her by Sasha Leng. A born slave and trained assassin. A gift from the Triple Triad. A gift that had turned into an insult.

"Play your fucking move," Foucault grunted. The prototype squinted its eyes at him, big grey disks that emulated the shocking chromes of Shepard's optics. She was remarkably beautiful, her pale features enhanced by Vakarian's tattoos. She looked nothing like the Butcher of Torfan. Her features, skin, hair, eyes… everything was wrong. The Commander of the Normandy SR-1 was tall, lean and sinewy. Her breasts were small, her hair was black and scar tissue flushed visible bronze skin. Shepard's original body had suffered immensely. Her naked body was a patchwork of broken and burnt skin covered with permanent ink and holes where piercings once were. In the early stages of Project Lazarus, Miranda first re-constructed an artificial simulation of Shepard's physical features. The unfamiliar face spawned the first of many difficult questions. Namely: Who _is_ Shepard?

_I'm a soldier_ Shepard replied when Jack first to asked. _D'uh._

Jack frowned. He exchanged his cigarette for a stick of cannabis. It soothed his nerves and relaxed his thinking; It also aided as a sort of mask, temporarily dulling the communications across his nervous system; Shepard had a harder time reading him after he consumed some quantities of THC. He licked his lips and smelled it, the sweet tones of citrus and sugar. He lit the tip and sipped on the marijuana cigarillo, tasting it more than inhaling, and only exhaling on rare occasion. It was a select product from his own private reserve - descendants of the very same marijuana plants he once smuggled between camps as a boy.

"You aren't obligated to finish this game, so why do you keep playing?" The Illusive Man inquired.

She was still, a chin draped across her hand. He enjoyed watching her think. Her eyes relaxed and her lips naturally bowed into a resting smile. Sometimes Shepard whispered conversations to herself.

The Illusive Man sniffed, index finger idly circling one of his Queen's pawns. The ivory felt soft under his nail. He spoke, idly picking at the piece. "Curiosity. Humanity's great awakening and weakness. It is what drives us and it is what kills us."

Shepard frowned.

The Illusive Man nodded, whips of smoke haloing his silhouette. "I want to know how this ends as well."

"It will end my way," Shepard blurted. He lifted his brows and pinched the edge of his cannabis cigarillo, disposing the remaining paper in an ashtray. He admired her tenacity, although he often disagreed with her convictions. Rather than point out the obvious dispute to that claim (namely his successful acquisition of the proto-human reaper), Jack elegantly crossed one leg across the other and watched Foucault as she 'watched' him. Her beauty was striking. Not but an hour ago, Shepard sprinted through the Milky Way's core. But you couldn't tell just by looking at her. No blood, no bandage. Just those blue tattoos.

_Oh Miranda, you were right._ He lamented. _She is dangerous._

Dangerous or not, Shepard's aversion to losing proved to be an excellent muzzle.

"Did everyone survive?" Harper asked.

"No. No that's not how this fucking works, _Jack_." Shepard growled, cutting the air with her arm. The movement was very uncanny, graceless and mechanical. He tapped his fingers, signaling a problem with the gynoid's function. There could be nothing short of perfection with an infiltration unit - one slight mistake and the house of cards would come crashing down. The reapers would see to it that life would once more be subjugated to an ancient, humiliating cycle of stagnation. Or it would all start anew, were it up to Shepard.

"Of course that's how it works," he gently reminded her.

Shepard frowned. She was thinking again… "Liar," the woman quickly concluded.

Jack tapped his finger across the antique chess piece, admiring the cracks and fissures across the aging horn. "You know, I've been told you have a beautiful singing voice."

Her expression remained utterly impassive, hands supporting her lower jaw. She was in all black except her face, a pale cream oval divided horizontally by bright cobalt blue paint and framed by brown hair. Her eyes focused on nothing. Jack could tell that Shepard was already receding into her mental space, detaching herself emotionally in order to deflect his opening attack during the delicate dance of power between them.

Her shrug confirmed he was moving in the right direction.

"I'm willing to finish this game right here, now before my next appointment," He sniffed.

The tip of Foucault's tongue touched her front teeth. _She's thinking…_

"Bullshit. What do you want?" Shepard snapped.

The Illusive Man fanned his fingers across his chin and stroked his jaw. His gaze fell upon the game board, focus jumping from piece to piece across the checkered field. Shepard offered her knight as a sacrifice. It was easy bait. Shepard's autism may not have stripped her of independence but it also didn't help her obsessive behavior. Jack knew Shepard, and she loathed stalled games.

"You only have to sing a song for me and I'll move," Jack answered nonchalantly. "And before you start bleating 'Mary had a little lamb', I have a condition..."

"You choose the song," Shepard seethed.

_She's taking the bait… _"I choose the song," Jack confirmed. He narrowed his eyes and leaned back in the silence that stretched between them. His wrist watch chimed, encouraging a smug smile. "My next appointment is in ten minutes, Shepard."

"What exactly did you want me to fucking sing, assface?"

"'The Parting Glass'."

Shepard's bright grey eyes widened and her jaw tensed. The robot shuddered. She stared at him with wide-eyed bewilderment, startled by his request. He worked hard to chip cracks into the thick icy walls locked around her heart, so the reaction satisfied him. "How do you know about that…?"

The Illusive Man smiled as he stood up. He walked in a great arc towards the liquor cabinet. Jack wanted something smooth and clear, something to reward the moment. Perhaps a vesper. "You have every right to know how I picked up that tidbit." He scratched his nose and noisily gathered the various liquor supplies required for the just dessert. "The Normandy recovery team managed to uncover several personal logs from the dead ship's crew. Not everyone on your ship wrote daily, but there were a disproportionate amount of entries ship-wide about Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams's death, more specifically, the hour she died."

Jack poured three measures of gin, one of vodka, and half a measure of Kina Lillet into a chilled chrome container covered in ice. He began to stir it, cubes swirling and bouncing around a wand whirling around the elixir. He dipped a pinky into the drink and tasted it, satisfied. It was very strong, very cold and very well-made. Jack plucked a lone lemon at the bar, flipped open a sharp pen knife and gingerly flayed the lemon's rind. He sliced a thin strip of yellow peel, leaving it aside to strain the ice-cold nectar into a deep goblet, gingerly garnishing the chalice with the lemon peel.

He heard a slow intake of air behind him before perfect pitch embraced his office.

"_Oh all the money that e'er I spent… I spent it in good company._"

Jack promptly lost his appetite for alcohol.

"_And all the harm that e'er I've done, Alas, it was to none but me._"

The alarming intonation resonated with heartbreak and grief, a bizarre combination channelled by a clear voice and reconstructed vocal chords. The juncture no longer felt victorious, nor did it surprise him. But for some reason a sinking fear submerged from the core of his body and wrapped itself around him as her voice pierced the room's interior.

"_And all I've done for want of wit. To memory now I can't recall._"

He peered past his shoulder and watched her sing. The robot's calm countenance hinted nothing reflecting the melancholic melody. Shepard secured eerie serenity across her countenance; In contrast, her soul whimpered.

"_So fill to me the parting glass. Good night and joy be with you all_."

Jack remained speechless, prompting Shepard to pause. _No. I have to see this through…_ He turned to her full attention and gestured for her to continue. The gynoid's nostrils flared and her ribcage expanded. Her eyes stayed on him, and his on hers.

"_Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had… Are sorry for my going away…_"

Shepard's serene stillness signified the strength of her song. The static hinted at the SR-1's unified experience. _To imagine what it felt like, listening to that lullaby lulling you to your death..._

"_And all the sweethearts that e'er I've loved… Would wish me one more day to stay…_"

_And as she lay dying, she asked you to sing with her. You refused. Then she started to sing. And your voices met on the radio._

"But since it falls unto my lot. _That I should rise and you should not…"_

Everyone listened. _Everyone_.

"…_I'll gently rise and I'll softly call. Good night and joy be with you all."_

Jack Harper understood human fragility and loathed it all the same. He did not like being reminded of his own body's natural failings, nor did he enjoy confronting the faults and defects of possessing an organic nature, such as rotting and dying. The song was a declaration of unity for this struggle. _We live and we die but boy, how have we lived - _it said.

"Tell me, Shepard. Did you have to sing again before this meeting?"

The question pierced her. The robot's optics quivered. Synthetic tears cut streams flush across blanched cheeks. It was a bizarre experience, puncturing the barricade dividing the woman from her humanity. Her quiet lament verified his unpleasant victory.

The gynoid stood up from her chair. adjusted her clothes in a very no-nonsense fashion (A hand definitely went under her vest so she could shift her left breast's place, though the act was less erotic and more matter-of-fact). She hopped back into the chair, and draped one leg across the other. The chair the gynoid was sitting upon sank as the robot lifted both feet from the polished ground, crossing a leg over the other. "Your curiosity hurts people," Foucault reminded him. She did that a lot.

Jack steepled his fingers and chose not to answer her. She was right. His curiosity did have a penchant for hurting people… but so did hers. He reached across the board and pinned Shepard's knight to his king, giving that king a square on d8.

Like clockwork, Shepard moved. For eight minutes they played in a flurry, each player already familiar with opening books. Despite his best, Foucault still bested him.

There were no words between them as she parted. No goodbyes or warm reminders. Shepard just stopped being there. Soft brown hair hardened, blue ink receded and pale flesh converted to chrome. Pulling out a handkerchief, the Illusive Man leaned across the table and blotted the silk across the unit's cheeks.

There was no consoling a doll, but the action still comforted him.

_'Sir. The proto-reaper will be docking shortly.'_

Jack sighed, running one thumb across the shell's soft, synthetic skin. He knew he was right. It was an unpleasant victory, but a victory nonetheless. Reluctantly, he removed himself from the arrangement, slowly strolling forward, towards the dying star that washed the glass room in spectrums of warm and cool colors.

"Goodnight and joy be with you too, Shepard," He whispered into space.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:::<strong>

**I know. It's been a long while - but that's what happens when you have a demanding career. Regardless of how long I take, I will always keep writing away. This story remains unfinished - so I will keep plugging away at it because I promised myself that I would wrap this baby up.**

**Next is a Legion story. 3**


End file.
